FRED  LOCKLEY 
RARE  WESTERN  BOOKS 

1  243  Ea«t  Stark  St 
PORTLAND.      ORE. 


BY 
WILLIAM  ORDWAY  PARTRIDGE 


THE  SONG  LIFE  OF  A  SCULPTOR 

16°,  gilt  top       .         .         .         .     $1.00 

ART  FOR  AMERICA 

1 6°,  gilt  top       .         .         .         .     $1.00 

THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  SCULPTURE 

Illustrated  by   original  drawings. 

16°,  gilt  top  ....     $1.00 


REVISED  EDITIONS  IN  PREPARATION 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  LONDON 


THE  ANGEL  OF  CLAY 


THE    ANQEL  OF   CLAY. 


THE 

ANGEL   OF   CLAY 


BY 


WILLIAM  ORDWAY  PARTRIDGE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  SONG  LIFE  OF  A  SCULPTOR,"  "ART  FOR  AMERICA'' 

"  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  SCULPTURE,"  AND  LECTURER  ON 

THE  FINE  ARTS  IN  COLUMBIAN  UNIVERSITY 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
A.  B.  WENZELL 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 
Tknicfcerbocfcer  press 

MCM 


COPYRIGHT,  1900 

BY 
WILLIAM  ORDWAY  PARTRIDGE 


TTbc  Knickerbocker  press,  flew  JBorfc 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HIM  WHO  WAS 
FATHER  AND  FRIEND 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— THE  CHUMS     ...        .        .  .        i 

II.— IN  THE  STUDIO       ...  .  »       7 

in.— FELICE    .       .       .       .       .  .  .18 

IV. — THE  MODEL    .        .        .        .  .  .25 

V.— MORE  FRIENDS      .        ..       .  .  .35 

VI. — MABEL  FROTHINGHAM  AND  PERRY  .      38 

VII. — A  NEW  ENGLAND  HOME      .  '  .  .      50 

VIII.— UNDER  THE  MOONLIGHT  "    .  .  .      55 

IX.— THE  ANGEL  OF  CLAY    .       .  .  .     64 

X. — ATWOOD  AND  MABEL     .  .  .76 

XI.— THE  POWER  OF  SONG    .       .    '  •.  •  .      83 

XII. — DANGEROUS  SAILING      .       .  .  .      91 

xiii. — A  LIFE  FOR  A  SOUL     ....    100 

XIV.— THE  WORLD'S  IDEA       .       %  112 

XV. — MOTHER  AND  SON         .       .  .  .    121 

XVI.— A  FORLORN  HOPE  .....    132 

XVII.— THE  MODEL  INSULTED  .       .  .  .    137 


viii  Contents 

PART  II 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  THORNS  OF  LIFE .145 

II. — CLOSER  THAN  A  BROTHER     .  .  .15* 

ill.— DEEP  WATERS       .       .       .  .159 

IV. — AN  AWKWARD  SITUATION     .  .  .     .     162 

V.— A  STRANGE  FATE 167 

VI. — THE  ANGEL'S  FACE       .       .  .  .178 

VII.— THE  RETURN  OF  ULYSSES    ..  .  .    186 

VIII.— MURILLO  AND  THE  MODEL    .  .  .192 

IX.-  IN  THE  RECTOR'S  STUDY       .  .  .    200 

X. — THE  SOUL'S  AWAKENING      .  .  .    207 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Page 
The  Angel  Of  Clay    .       Frontispiece 

The  Soul's  Awakening     .        .    208 


ix 


"Mother  Earth  !     Are  the  heroes  dead ? 

Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years  no  more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  poppies  red 

All  that  is  left  of  the  brave  of  yore  ? 
Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus  fought, 

Far  in  the  young  world's  misty  dawn  ? 
Or  to  teach  as  the  gray-haired  Nestor  taught? 

Mother  Earth !     Are  the  heroes  gone  ? 

"  Gone?     In  a  grander  form  they  rise  ; 

Dead?     We  may  clasp  their  hands  in  ours  ; 
And  catch  the  light  of  their  clearer  eyes, 

And  wreathe  their  brows  with  immortal  flowers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  is  done 

'T  is  the  pulse  of  a  hero's  heart  is  stirred  ; 
Wherever  Right  has  a  triumph  won, 

There  are  the  heroes'  voices  heard. 

"Their  armour  rings  on  a  fairer  field 

Than  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan  fiercely  trod, 
For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they  wield, 

And  the  light  above  is  the  smile  of  God. 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away  ; 
For  the  heroes  live,  and  the  sky  is  bright, 
And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day." 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  CLAY 


PART  I 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   CHUMS 

"  Sculpture  is  more  than  painting.     It  is  greater 
To  raise  the  dead  to  life,  than  to  create 
Phantoms  that  seem  to  live.     .     .     . 

"  .     .     .    This  vast  ball,  the  earth, 
Was  moulded  out  of  clay,  and  baked  in  fire ; 
Men,  women,  and  all  animals  that  breathe 
Are  statues,  and  not  paintings." 

MICHELANGELO. 

"  TT  is  strange,  Jack,  how  little  the  world 
1     knows  or  seems  to  care  to  know  about 
sculpture,  while  every  periodical  has  a  picture 
and  a  story  about  you  painters." 

"  Well,  old  fellow,  you  remember  the  words 
of  Wordsworth,  a  poet  not  much  in  favour  in 
these  perfervid,  noisy  days.  He  says  —  some- 
where in  the  Excursion,  I  think  it  is  : 


The  Angel  of  Clay 


'Strongest  minds  are  often  those  of  whom  the  noisy 
world  hears  least.' 


The  fact  is,"  the  man  addressed  continued, 
"  there  is  a  savour  of  passion  and  sentiment 
about  the  painter's  studio  and  life  that  carries 
it  about  on  the  wings  of  gossip  ;  but  your 
world,  Lawrence,  as  you  say,  has  the  charm  to 
me  of  things  unrevealed  to  common  eyes.  And 
it  is  better  that  it  should  be  so.  Your  studios 
are  workshops,  not  club-rooms  for  dandies  to 
parade  in.  You  've  got  to  know  how  to  handle 
a  saw  and  a  jack-plane, and  have  muscle  enough 
to  swing  great  masses  of  clay  and  plaster  into 
place,  and  sufficient  determination,  at  least,  to 
follow  a  statue  for  perhaps  three  years  from  the 
clay-pot  to  the  bronze-foundry.  And  then, 
when  you  have  done  that,  you  must  wait  half 
a  lifetime  to  find  someone  with  sufficient  culture 
to  care  for  form  without  the  superficial  attrac- 
tion of  colour.  Yes,  Lawrence,  you  have  my 
sympathy  as  well  as  my  reverence  for  3rour 
work  and  your  life." 

The  two  speakers  were  working  in  a  large, 
rough,  barn-like  building  which  had  evidently 
been  intended,  originally,  for  a  stable,  and  had 
been  converted,  by  trussing  the  roof  and  taking 
out  the  partition  and  the  flooring,  into  a  great 
studio,  that  is,  great  for  the  centre  of  a  busy 
city  where  ever}'  square  foot  of  land  has  a  high 


The  Chums  3 

market  value.  The  building  was  not  ten  min- 
utes' walk  from  the  square  where  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Broadway  intersect  and  bring  the  fashion- 
able world  and  the  business  world  together. 
Few  dreamed  that  there  was  any  such  place 
within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of  these  main 
arteries,  where  the  blood  and  strength  of  New 
York  City  can  be  seen  to  throb  and  pass  on 
unceasingly. 

The  two  men  were  interesting  types,  differ- 
ently constituted,  born  in  different  spheres,  un- 
like in  physique  and  appearance,  and  yet  one 
in  spirit  and  in  sympathy.  The  one  addressed 
by  the  name  Jack  we  shall  learn  to  know  bet- 
ter when  we  hear  him  called  by  his  rightful 
name  of  John  Atwood  —  the  son  of  a  proud 
Southern  family  whose  fortunes  and  lives  were 
given  to  the  Confederate  cause.  John  was 
wont  to  say,  when  people  talked  about  the 
North  and  the  South  : 

"  My  father  believed  in  the  cause  of  the  Con- 
federacy, and  he  left  his  body  at  Bull  Run  in 
testimony  of  his  faith." 

Atwood  was  a  man  twenty-eight  years  of 
age.  There  were  times  when  he  looked  older; 
to-day  he  would  scarcely  have  been  taken  for 
twenty-five.  He  looked  his  best  when  near  his 
friend  Lawrence.  The  one  had  a  good  effect 
upon  the  other.  They  had  met,  these  two 
men,  in  that  curious  Bohemia  or  Bohemian 


4  The  Angel  of  Clay 

atmosphere  of  the  Latin  Quarter  in  Paris, 
where  men  make  quick  friendships.  Atwood 
was  built  on  a  generous  scale,  broad  shoulders, 
not  too  tall, — five  feet  ten  and  a  half,  perhaps, — 
and  his  features  were  those  that  you  see  in  the 
Continental  portraits  of  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Indeed,  Lawrence  used  to  say  to  him  : 

"  Jack,  all  you  need  is  a  peruke  and  knee- 
breeches,  and  you  could  pose  for  one  of  the 
signers  of  the  Declaration." 

And  Jack  would  reply  to  this  : 

"  Well,  I  suppose  if  I  had  been  alive  in  those 
days,  old  man,  I  should  have  been  warring 
against  the  existing  powers,  just  as  I  do  now.  I 
wish  to  heaven  I  were  one  of  those  fellows  who 
can  lie  back  and  let  the  boat  drift  with  the 
stream,  but  I  cannot.  The  minute  I  see  things 
going  wrong,  be  it  in  the  great  world  outside, 
or  in  the  little  world  within  me,  I  am  moved 
to  stir  around  and  try  to  set  them  right.  I 
think  you  struck  the  trouble  once,  Lawrence, 
when  you  were  criticising  that  face  Hamilton 
painted  of  me  in  our  old  studio  in  the  Rue 
Halle.  You  did  n't  know  that  I  heard  you, 
old  fellow,  but  the  door  was  open  and  I  came 
upon  you  unawares.  Your  backs  were  turned 
to  me  ;  Hamilton  was  standing  back  with  his 
palette  and  his  brushes  in  his  hands  —  I  can 
see  him  now,  in  that  dainty  blue  blouse  which 
toned  in  so  perfectly  with  his  complexion. 


The  Chums  5 

Dear  old  fellow !  I  wish  he  were  here  to-day. 
You,  Lawrence,  were  sitting  on  a  box  with 
your  heavy  head  dropped  on  your  hand  and 
looking  intently  at  the  picture.  I  might  have 
taken  everything  there  was  in  the  place,  and 
I  don't  believe  you  fellows  would  have  heard 
me.  '  Well,  Lawrence,'  said  Hamilton,  '  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  it  ;  is  it  like  Jack  or  not  ? 
Have  I  caught  his  character  ?  '  '  Like  him, 
my  boy  ?  '  you  replied  ;  '  it  is  more  Jack  than 
anybody  knows  him  except  you  and  myself.' 
Then  you  went  on  :  '  Yes,  Hamilton,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  that  fellow  finds  life  uphill  work. 
Look  at  the  weight  of  that  brow  ;  how  it  over- 
balances the  chin.  The  brow  is  heavy  enough 
for  the  Olympian  Jove,  but  the  chin  is  weak 
enough  to  be  Swinburne's  ;  or,  if  it  is  not  going 
too  far  for  a  friend  we  know  and  love  so  well, 
it  would  do  for  a  Greek  satyr's  chin.  You 
see,  Hamilton,  the  features  do  not  pull  to- 
gether. No,  not  in  your  picture,  I  mean,  but 
in  actuality,  as  it  is.  A  man  with  a  face  like 
that  can  never  have  any  great  peace  of  soul  or 
rest  of  body.  If  the  brow  were  lighter,  life 
would  be  easy  enough  for  Jack.  In  that  case, 
he  would  give  himself  up  to  the  things  of  this 
world,  and  have  no  worry  about  making  his 
world  tally  with  the  hereafter.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  chin  were  heavier,  he  would  give 
himself  wholly  to  those  things  which  are  not 


6  The  Angel  of  Clay 

long  disturbed  by  passion  and  fever  in  the 
blood.'  You  see,  Lawrence,  my  memory  is 
good.  That  was  n't  all  you  said  about  my  face 
that  day,  but  that  is  enough,  old  fellow,  for  a 
biographical  sketch,  and  the  Britannica  would 
scarcely  ask  for  a  longer  one,  even  if  I  rival 
Turner  in  startling  effects." 

EHerton  Lawrence  had  listened  seriously  for 
the  most  part  to  all  his  friend  had  been  say- 
ing, working  all  the  time  at  a  bust — a  strong 
man's  face  that  was  nearing  completion  on  the 
modelling  stand  before  him  —  the  portrait  of  a 
great  preacher  recently  deceased.  But  some- 
thing iii  the  talk  seemed  a  little  ponderous,  for 
Lawrence  turned,  smiling,  upon  his  companion, 
saying  : 

"Jack,  you  must  cook  the  lunch  to-day. 
I  've  got  everything  heart  could  wish  for,  and 
all  we  need  is  your  skill,  to  turn  cold  canned 
goods  into  steaming  hot  soup  and  dishes  that 
have  made  my  mouth  water  more  than  once." 

"  All  right,"  replied  Jack;  "  if  I  can't  paint 
like  Velasquez,  I  can  probably  cook  better  than 
he  ever  thought  of  doing." 

And  with  these  words  John  Atwood  removed 
his  brushes  carefully  from  the  thumb-hole  in 
the  palette,  and  began  wiping  them  on  the  half- 
torn  piece  of  undergarment  which  he  found  on 
a  chair  near  his  easel. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN   THE  STUDIO 

"  Long  as  thine  Art  shall  love  true  love, 

Long  as  thy  Science  truth  shall  know, 
Long  as  thine  Eagle  harms  no  Dove, 

Long  as  thy  Law  by  law  shall  grow, 
Long  as  thy  God  is  God  above, 

Thy  brother  every  man  below,  — 
So  long,  dear  Land  of  all  my  love, 
Thy  name  shall  shine,  thy  fame  shall  grow  !  " 
SIDNEY 


WHILE  Atwood  is  preparing  the  lunch, 
let  us  look  for  a  moment  more  closely 
at  the  men,  and  the  studio  they  inhabit. 

Like  most  artists  who  have  returned  from 
their  studies  abroad,  Lawrence  had  made  the 
mistake  of  trying  to  practise  his  profession  in 
a  city  where  he  was  known  —  let  us  call  it  the 
modern  Athens.  But  he  found  the  old  saying 
of  the  Bible  only  too  true  :  "  A  prophet  is  not 
without  honour  save  in  his  own  country." 
Then,  too,  the  proximity  of  a  great  university 
seemed  rather  to  hinder  than  to  help  the  growth 
of  his  art.  And  this  was  not  to  be  wondered 
7 


8  The  Angel  of  Clay 

at,  since  the  professor  of  the  beautiful  arts  at 
that  university  was  wont  to  affirm  that  there 
was  no  art  after  Titian,  and  to  confess  that  he 
had  never  entered  the  studio  of  a  living  artist. 
And  yet  it  was  this  man  who  was  raised  up 
upon  a  dais  by  his  highly  cultured  fellow- 
townsmen,  the  residents  of  this  modern  Athens, 
that  had  many  characteristics  of  the  ancient 
city  of  that  name  and  lacked  only  the  essential 
thing  —  the  love  of  the  beautiful.  He  found 
the  people  afraid  to  express  any  opinion  about 
art  until  they  had  asked  what  this  great  pro- 
fessor thought  of  a  picture  or  a  statue;  and  what 
could  he  think  or  know  —  keeping  himself  in 
an  ostrich-like  ignorance  of  the  present,  his 
head  buried  deep  in  the  sands  of  the  past,  fear- 
ing lest  some  inspiration  or  fresh,  natural  feel- 
ing might  strike  him  unawares,  and  paralyse 
his  senses,  bound  up  in  the  cerements  of  con- 
vention, and  mummified  by  residence  in  the 
tombs  of  the  past  ? 

Lawrence  had  abandoned  this  city,  because 
he  found  also  that  to  make  any  headway  in  art 
there,  one  had  to  devote  so  much  time  to  after- 
noon teas  with  their  cheap  talk  and  omnipresent 
gossipy  women.  Everyone  seemed  to  know  or 
to  care  for  everyone  else's  private  affairs,  and 
his  independent  spirit  made  him  look  upon  this 
as  an  impertinence,  and  so  when  not  in  his 
mother's  home,  he  was  to  be  found  in  his 


In  the  Studio  g 

well-equipped  studio  in  New  York.  Still, for  all 
his  leaving  this  modern  Athens,  he  cared  dearly 
for  the  men  there,  and  was  a  member  of  a  num- 
ber of  clubs,  among  them,  the  last  to  come  into 
existence  and  the  most  hopeful,"  The  Humani- 
tarian Club,"  or,  as  it  was  sometimes  called, 
' '  Believers  in  the  New  Life. ' '  Here  were  to  be 
found  at  the  Saturday  lunch  a  number  of  the 
brightest  and  most  manly  men  in  the  city. 

There  were  many  who  came  to  Lawrence's 
studio,  the  best  and  greatest  in  the  land,  as 
well  as  the  lowest  and  poorest  from  the  slums  of 
the  East  Side.  Lawrence  had  an  inborn  sym- 
pathy for  all  conditions  of  men,  and  he  knew 
that  no  one  set  or  clique  could  hold  all  that  was 
good  in  the  world.  And  this  knowledge  was 
to  deepen  into  experience  before  many  years 
passed  over  his  head.  For  this  reason,  while 
he  went  often  to  Unitarian  or  Universalist 
gatherings,  he  had  among  his  friends  a  well- 
known  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England, 
and  men  in  the  clergy  and  out  of  it,  of  all  de- 
grees of  faith  and  belief.  When  anyone  asked 
him  to  tie  himself  down  to  this  or  that  creed, 
he  would  reply  : 

"It  is  not  possible,  for  I  have  friends,  you 
see,  whom  I  love  dearly,  men  who  hold  creeds 
and  beliefs  that  differ  as  widely  as  the  tropic 
from  the  arctic  zone.  I  find  these  men  striv- 
ing, each  in  his  own  way,  to  live  closer  each 


io  The  Angel  of  Clay 

day  to  the  life  of  that  perfect  man  who  taught 
by  his  life,  as  well  as  by  his  word,  that  to 
give,  that  is,  to  give  one's  self,  which  is  the 
highest  giving,  is  indeed  more  blessed  than  to 
receive." 

He  loved  to  repeat  the  words  of  the  great 
preacher  whose  face  he  was  now  modelling,  a 
face  which  seemed  to  baffle  him  in  spite  of 
every  effort.  This  man  had  once  said  to 
Lawrence  : 

"  My  dear  Lawrence,  I  look  for  the  time,  and 
you  may  live  to  see  it,  when  there  will  be  one 
great  brotherhood  and  no  sects.  Let  me  call 
it,"  this  inspired  prophet  went  on  to  say, 
"  the  resultant  Church."  And  Lawrence 
would  recall  how  he  mentioned  each  Church 
in  turn,  taking  from  each  some  characteristic 
to  make  up  this  great  brotherhood  which  took 
for  its  ideal  that  simple  life  of  the  Galilean 
Carpenter,  with  whom  to  be  was  greater  than 
to  have. 

All  artists  are  cranks,  more  or  less,  and  some 
of  Lawrence's  friends,  mostly  those  who  were 
given  to  the  good  things  of  this  life,  would 
say: 

"  You  see,  Lawrence  is  a  humanitarian 
crank.  Of  course  he  works  like  the  devil  and 
so  he  gets  on,  but  if  he  would  only  stop  those 
everlasting  missions  for  humanity  and  take  bet- 
ter care  of  his  bank  account,  the  fellow  would 


In  the  Studio  1 1 

be  laying  by  something  for  a  rainy  day,  instead 
of  attempting  to  pull  out  of  the  mire  every  poor 
chap  who  runs  up  against  him." 

There  was  one  man  who  tried  to  foist  this 
philosophy  upon  Lawrence  —  one  Boardman,  a 
kind-hearted  fellow  who  came  often  to  the 
studio,  a  man  of  gentle  breeding,  most  kindly 
feeling,  and  generous  culture,  but  a  fellow 
given  too  much  to  champagne  suppers  and  the 
fat  things  of  this  life.  He  could  not  under- 
stand the  ascetic,  missionary  spirit  which 
burned  in  the  heart  of  the  sculptor. 

Lawrence  confided  in  Atwood  more  than 
anyone  else,  for  the  love  of  humanity  burned 
in  the  painter  also. 

"  What  is  the  use,"  Lawrence  would  say  to 
Atwood,  "  of  living  in  this  world,  unless  a  man 
can  be  of  some  use  to  his  fellows  ?  Life  is  not 
worth  its  cost  ;  the  game  is  not  worth  the 
candle.  We  know  this,  old  fellow,  even  in 
our  short  lives  ;  and  God  only  knows  how 
much  agony  there  may  yet  be  in  store  for  us. 
I  believe  first  of  all  in  a  rounded  manhood. 
Take  that  thing  to  start  with,  and  then,  no 
matter  how  this  being  manifests  himself,  lie 
will  do  his  work  simply  and  honestly  and 
greatly.  If  he  sees  the  world  in  terms  of 
beauty,  why,  he  will  be  a  great  artist.  How- 
ever he  interpret  the  world,  he  will  do  it 
greatly.  All  this  claptrap  and  nonsense  about 


1 2  Tke  Angel  of  Clay 

art  for  art's  sake,  we  know,  is  what  the  Eng- 
lish call  '  rot.'  If  these  new  men,  with  their 
bizarre  ideas  in  painting  and  sculpture,  which 
they  have  learnt  in  the  hothouse  schools  of 
Paris,  are  right,  why  then  we  must  discredit 
and  set  aside  the  great  masters.  But,  Atwood, 
it  is  fortunate  we  had  some  intellectual  train- 
ing before  we  left  America,  so  that  we  were 
able  to  hold  Paris  at  arm's  length,  notwith- 
standing her  fascination,  and  to  judge  of  her 
as  she  is,  more  than  as  she  appears  to  be." 

"  And  fortunate  for  us,  Lawrence,"  Atwood 
here  interrupted,  "  that  we  went  to  Italy  first, 
and  had  our  tastes  and  sentiments  drawn  out 
in  a  natural,  human  manner  before  we  went 
to  Paris,  where  the  working  out  the  theme 
to-day  is  all  that  is  considered,  and  the  subject- 
matter  is  lost  sight  of — that  is,  the  great  sculp- 
tor takes  for  a  model  a  woman  of  the  street, 
and  asks  her  to  take  a  position  where  she  may 
appear  like  Diana,  the  chaste  goddess  of  the 
hearth.  Of  course,  as  she  cannot  mentally 
grasp  Diana,  she  cannot  assume  anything  else 
than  a  theatrical  interpretation  of  a  virtue  she 
does  not  possess.  When  the  sculptor  has  fin- 
ished the  statue,  he  attaches  to  it  the  name 
'  Diana,'  exhibits  it  in  the  Salon,  not  graced 
with  so  much  as  a  necklace,  and  the  admiring 
French  public  look  at  it  with  greedy  eyes  and 
exclaim,  '  Tres  intlressant,'1  Old  fellow,  there 


In  the  Studio  13 

is  a  tremendous  lot  of  nonsense  about  the  de- 
cadent Salon  and  the  claptrap  of  the  Parisian 
art  of  to-day.  I  believe  it  would  make  Millet 
sick  if  he  were  to  come  to  life  again,  and  go 
through  these  flippant  schools.  How  can  a 
people  who  have  faith  in  neither  God  nor  man 
pretend  to  do  anything  good  in  art  or  life  ? 
And  these  fellows  get  together  over  a  bottle  of 
Julien  here  in  Sixth  Avenue, — which  Julien  is 
not  pure  wine  any  more  than  their  art  is  pure, 
but  a  little  acid  and  water, — and  call  us  Philis- 
tines because  we  dare  to  think.  It  seems  to 
be  criminal  to  think  in  art  to-day.  A  man 
must  hack  away  at  his  clay  without  rhyme  or 
reason  ;  only  contort  and  twist  his  figure  into 
some  strange  and  exaggerated  shape  which  will 
catch  the  eyes  of  the  groundlings,  and  he  has 
achieved  a  great  thing.  If  he  paints  frescoes, 
he  must  paraphrase  Botticelli,  and  make  im- 
possible blue  garments  and  the  most  purple  of 
hills,  and  blue  everywhere,  or  else  he  is  snubbed 
as  a  member  of  the  old  school.  Would  to  God 
sanity  were  a  little  more  sought  for  by  our 
artists  !  " 

So  Atwood  and  Lawrence  would  talk  by  the 
hour  together  over  their  respective  arts,  and 
the  hopes  and  dangers  which  attended  them. 
Ellerton  took  a  great  deal  of  comfort  in  At- 
wood's  musical  gifts,  and  often  in  the  twilight 
hours  Atwood  would  take  out  from  a  corner 


14  The  Angel  of  Clay 

set  aside  for  his  own  personal  effects  a  violin 
which  his  friend  had  given  him  on  his  first 
birthday  after  their  return  to  America, —  one  he 
had  bought  at  a  sale  of  the  effects  of  Ole  Bull, 
and  which  had  been  a  favourite  with  the  great 
master.  So,  after  the  weary  hours  were  past, 
and  the  clay  statues  wetted  down  and  covered, 
Lawrence  would  stretch  himself  out  on  his 
rough  sofa,  while  Atwood  would  walk  up  and 
down  with  the  violin  held  firmljr  but  tenderly 
to  himself,  and  play  music,  consoling  and  in- 
spiring, and  always  refreshing  after  the  strain 
of  creative  work.  Lawrence  loved  especially 
Schubert's  Ave  Maria,  and  Mauser's  Berceuse. 
When  Atwood  felt  particularly  tempestuous, 
he  would  sweep  from  these  more  consoling 
pieces  into  the  inspiring  Largo  by  Handel. 
Both  of  them  loved  serious  music,  and  found 
more  rest  and  recreation  in  the  repose  inspired 
by  the  great  masters  than  in  the  light  and  flip- 
pant music  of  the  composers  of  the  day. 

Lunch  finished,  Atwood  began  walking  back- 
ward and  forward,  scrutinising  his  work  with 
more  satisfaction  than  usual. 

"  Ellerton,"  he  finally  ejaculated,  "  you  may 
not  always  be  a  kind  critic,  but  I  believe  you 
are  a  just  one, —  which  is  something  in  these 
days,  —  and  I  know  you  have  seen  the  best  art 
the  world  contains,  and  you  ought  to  know 
something  about  it.  Now,  tell  me,  old  fellow, 


In  the  Studio  15 

joking  aside,  how  do  you  like  this  face  I  am 
finishing  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Jack  ;  the  painting, 
the  expression,  or  the  sitter?  "  the  other  an- 
swered laconically. 

"  Well,  criticise  the  painting  first,  the  char- 
acter second,  and  the  subject  third  and  last. 
I  place  the  subject  last,  because  once  she  was 
first  in  my  affections,  but  my  brow  got  the 
better  of  my  chin  and  I  care  more  for  the 
painting  than  I  do  for  the  sentiment." 

"  Well,  Jack,  the  painting  is  good.  It  is 
one  of  your  best  efforts.  I  have  never  seen  the 
face,  but  it  is  a  charming  bit  of  colour.  The 
flesh  tones  and  tints  are  more  like  life  than  you 
have  ever  painted  them  before.  The  drawing  is 
excellent,  and  if  anything  is  to  be  said,  — which 
seems  like  hypercriticism, — it  is  this  :  the  red 
colour  in  the  girl's  cheek  is  just  a  bit  warm  for 
that  light  background.  Tone  it  down  a  bit, 
my  boy  ;  I  think  it  will  make  better  harmony. 
By  George  !  One  does  not  find  a  sitter  like 
that  every  day,  Jack.  That  face  has  the  be- 
ginning of  a  Juno  in  it." 

"  Yes,  old  fellow,  there  is  the  possibility  in 
it  of  a  Minerva,  but  the  possibility  will  never 
be  realised." 

"  What  is  the  nationality  of  your  subject, 
Jack,  now  that  I  have  criticised  the  painting  ?  " 

Jack  answered  laughingly  : 


1 6  The  A  ngel  of  Clay 

"  You  might  say,  from  Rome,  but  in  truth, 
my  boy,  she  comes  from  Chicago.  Strange 
types  are  thrown  up  there  by  the  mingling  of 
the  races.  Her  mother  was  an  Italian,  of  what 
lineage  the  L,ord  only  knows;  and  her  father, 
one  Hartmann,  I  have  heard  it  said,  was  a  man 
of  parts,  an  American,  who  went  to  Italy  in 
the  search  of  health,  and  fell  ill  there,  and 
was  taken  care  of  by  his  model,  whom  he 
finally  married.  The  poor  fellow  died  out 
there,  and  the  wife  came  home  with  this  one 
little  daughter,  to  look  after  whatever  property 
the  wandering  artist  might  have  in  America. 
His  people  would  not  recognise  her,  and  she 
fell  in  with  a  curious  set  out  there,  call  it  Bo- 
hemian, or  artistic,  or  what  you  will,  and  the 
little  girl  was  educated  —  well,  you  know  how 
such  children  are  developed,  if  you  can  call  that 
education.  She  was  bright  enough,  and  if  a 
little  of  heaven's  light  had  been  let  in  upon 
her  in  those  early  days,  why,  she  might  have 
been  the  Juno  the  canvas  suggests  to  you." 

Lawrence  stood  leaning  against  his  model- 
ling stand,  looking  intently  at  the  picture,  and 
thinking  of  his  friend's  words  and  of  the  rich 
type  of  physical  beauty  on  the  canvas  before 
him.  He  awoke  suddenly  from  his  dream, 
saying  to  Atwood  : 

"  It  is  a  face,  Jack,  you  could  put  into  colour, 
and  with  it  fascinate  the  world ;  but  were  I  to 


In  the  Studio  1 7 

put  it  into  sober  form  and  tell  its  whole  truth, 
it  would  be  to  the  world  what  Cleopatra  was 
to  Mark  Antony,  and  its  mission  would  be  to 
weaken  and  not  to  strengthen  mankind.  It  is 
a  dangerous  face,  my  boy,"  Lawrence  con- 
tinued, "  and  yet  a  strangely  fascinating  one. 
Dear  God,  if  such  wild  beauty  might  be  run 
into  stern  New  England  mould  and  sanctified, 
what  a  rare  combination  we  should  have !  The 
mould  would  be  improved  as  well  as  the  cast." 


CHAPTER   III 

FELICE 

"A  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy." 

Hamlet. 

AFTER  further  chat  with  Lawrence  over  a 
long  clay  pipe  and  a  cup  of  black  coffee, 
Atwood  took  his  painting  under  his  arm,  and, 
asking  his  friend  to  drop  in  later  in  the  after- 
noon, departed  to  his  own  studio  in  an  adjoin- 
ing street  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  square. 
Ellerton  was  left  alone  with  his  work  and  with 
his  faithful  moulder  and  studio-keeper,  Felice. 

Felice  formed  as  much  a  part  of  the  studio 
as  the  clays  and  the  casts,  or  even  the  sculptor 
himself.  In  fact,  he  was  a  creation  of  the 
studios.  Lawrence  had  found  him  first  in 
Florence.  He  had  come  to  him  one  afternoon 
asking  for  work  and  saying  he  had  forsaken 
the  padrone's  shop  where  Lawrence  had  been 
accustomed  to  find  him  when  he  had  any  small 
things  to  be  cast. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  Lawrence  had  said  in 
response  to  his  request  ;  "  come  over  to  the 
18 


Felice  19 

studio  and  I  '11  make  up  a  shop  for  you  in  one 
of  the  corners,  and  you  shall  bring  your  tools 
and  old  bird-cages  and  everything  you  have 
got  except  your  wife  and  child.  For  the  pre- 
sent, at  least,  they  had  better  remain  in  their 
picturesque  little  nest  overhanging  the  Arno." 

So  Felice  had  come  as  a  cat  comes  to  try  new 
quarters,  and  liking  them  he  had  stayed  — 
stayed  through  the  two  years  or  more  that 
Lawrence  passed  in  his  studios  in  or  about 
Florence,  and  went  with  him  from  Florence  to 
Paris,  where  he  spent  three  years  after  leaving 
Italy,  and  then  followed  him  to  the  United 
States  accompanied  by  his  German  wife  ;  for, 
strange  to  say,  Felice  had  married  a  German 
woman  with  one  little  daughter,  and  the  two 
had  come  to  look  upon  Lawrence  as  the  beacon- 
light  who  was  to  guide  their  various  ships  into 
port. 

And  now  we  find  Felice  part  and  parcel  of 
the  New  York  studio,  as  much  at  home  there 
as  if  he  had  been  born  in  the  metropolis.  No 
matter  how  sad  Lawrence  might  be,  Felice, 
true  to  his  name,  was  always  happy.  Nothing 
discouraged  him,  nothing  daunted  him.  He 
dreamt  constantly  of  great  riches  and  diamond 
mines  and  flying-machines,  and  all  the  intan- 
gible things  which  delude  and  delight  those 
happy  people  who  chase  butterflies  from  the 
beginning  of  life  to  its  close.  He  was  what 


2O  The  Angel  of  Clay 

the  French  people  call  a  "  type."  He  had 
that  mother-wit  which  cannot  be  acquired,  the 
wit  which  makes  Shakespeare's  clowns  as  in- 
teresting and  as  lovable  as  the  leading  charac- 
ters of  his  dramas.  Ellerton  never  thought  of 
him  without  repeating  Hamlet's  words  upon 
the  skull  of  Yorick. 

Felice  was  a  philosopher,  and,  for  all  his 
gaiety,  there  was  about  him  just  a  touch  of  the 
sadness  of  the  melancholy  Jaques.  No  one  can 
be  wholly  gay  without  bordering  at  times  on 
the  deepest  pathos.  But  his  tears  fell  through 
smiles  and  the  great  world  was  deceived  by  the 
smiles,  no  matter  what  he  felt  or  what  misery 
he  passed  through.  There  were  times  when  the 
domestic  relations  were  perhaps  a  little  strained, 
and,  remembering  his  early  love  in  Italy,  he 
had  regrets  for  the  land  he  had  abandoned, 
and  the  sunny  natures  he  had  left  behind  him. 

One  of  Felice's  strong  points,  in  his  own  esti- 
mation, was  the  discussion  of  religious  matters, 
and  on  the  day  in  question  he  had  been  roused 
by  an  article  on  the  Pope  in  an  Italian  paper, 
sent  from  Florence  by  his  fat  mother  —  so  fat, 
Felice  would  sa}r,  that  there  was  no  horse-car 
in  Florence  sufficiently  large  to  take  her  in, 
and  as  she  was  too  poor  to  hire  a  "  vettura  " 
except  on  the  feast  of  the  "  Annunciata  "  or 
some  rare  occasion,  she  was  obliged  to  content 
herself  with  the  phases  of  life  she  could  see 


Felice  2 1 

from  her  window  in  the  Mercato  Vecchio  — 
which  is  no  small  world  in  itself. 

Felice  had  little  faith  in  popes,  although  he 
swore  to  having  an  uncle  who  was  a  priest, 
who,  after  the  death  of  Felice's  father,  had 
tried  to  persuade  the  fat  mother  into  making 
Felice  an  acolyte.  And  while  he  discredited 
all  belief  in  the  popes  and  the  churches,  he 
claimed  on  certain  festal  days  to  have  disbursed 
as  much  as  four  soldi  for  a  candle  to  burn  in 
memory  of  his  dead  father,  whom  he  had  loved 
with  the  devotion  of  a  dog. 

The  article  in  the  paper  had  stirred  Felice's 
gall,  and  he  turned  to  Lawrence,  asking  how 
any  man  had  the  right  or  dared  to  say  he  had 
the  power  to  forgive  the  people's  sins. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Signore,"  he  went  on, 
"  this  religion  is  making  a  nation  of  rascals  of 
the  Italians.  Why,  for  every  peccadillo  or 
crime  a  man  commits,  a  franc  to  the  father 
confessor  will  buy  absolution,  and  the  knave 
goes  off  with  three  francs  left  in  his  pocket 
with  which  to  get  drunk  and  start  out  on  a 
new  career  of  crime.  The  next  time  he  com- 
mits a  larger  theft,  and  lays  by  a  little  more 
after  paying  for  having  his  soul  absolved  and 
easing  his  conscience  with  an  extra  bottle  of 
Chianti,  and  he  is  enabled  by  careful  saving  to 
grow  rich  and  eventually  become  a  prince  of 
the  realm.  I  think  sometimes,  Signore,  the 


22  The  Angel  of  Clay 

Medicis  must  have  acquired  their  wealth  in 
this  way." 

Lawrence  replied  that  he  thought  it  was  quite 
possible. 

"But  old  Savonarola,"  Felice  broke  in, 
"  would  not  absolve  the  great  Juliano  in  spite 
of  all  his  efforts.  Now  he  was  a  priest  after 
my  own  heart.  '  Make  Florence  free,'  he  said, 
'  and  I  will  make  you  free  of  your  sins.'  But 
Juliano  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  unwilling 
to  make  this  sacrifice,  and  died,  '  having  en- 
slaved his  city.'  Now  if  Savonarola  were 
living  to-day,  I  would  cast  in  a  vote  to  make 
a  pope  of  him,  and  my  wife  and  her  little  girl 
and  my  own  boy  Danialle  would  vote  for  him 
also." 

Lawrence  had  listened  to  so  much  of  this 
chatter,  and  had  become  so  used  to  assent  in 
order  that  he  might  go  on  with  his  work  and 
not  have  to  stop  and  take  up  a  vehement  argu- 
ment, that  Felice  would  continue  in  this  strain 
for  an  hour  at  a  time.  The  work  Lawrence 
was  doing  was  a  nervous  and  tiresome  one, 
the  face  of  a  great  man  spoken  of  in  a  previous 
chapter  —  a  man  who,  while  he  belonged  to  an 
established  church,  was  large  enough  to  com- 
prehend all  forms  of  religion  and  to  acknow- 
ledge the  good  in  each;  a  man  whose  life  had 
been  for  the  good  of  the  whole  people,  and  who 
was  a  glorious  specimen  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  at 


Felice  23 

his  best  ;  one  who  had  put  himself  on  record 
as  saying  :  "  Let  us  always  feel  that  to  accept 
a  new  belief  is  not  to  build  a  wall  beyond  which 
we  cannot  pass,  but  to  open  the  door  to  a  great, 
fresh,  free  region,  in  which  our  souls  are  to 
live.  And  just  so  is  it  when  we  come  to  the 
moral  things  of  life.  The  man  puts  aside  some 
sinfulness.  He  breaks  down  the  wall  that  has 
been  shutting  his  soul  out  of  its  higher  life." 
One  of  the  archetypal  men,  of  whom  Long- 
fellow writes  in  his  sonnets,  he  showed  the 
amplitude  of  nature's  first  design,  and  his 
discourse  was  indeed  like  a  generous  wine,  for 
it  freed  men's  souls  and  lifted  them  above  the 
sordid  ideas  of  daily  getting  and  spending. 
Lawrence  had  known  this  great  preacher  and 
had  loved  him.  He  had  shown  some  appreci- 
ation for  the  artist's  early  work,  and  had  visited 
him  several  times  in  the  studio.  But  the  face 
was  an  impossible  one  for  sculpture,  and  Law- 
rence, while  he  had  accepted  a  commission  to 
execute  it,  felt  that  he  was  undertaking  an 
almost  hopeless  task. 

Felice  kept  shooting  out  these  questions  and 
assertions  about  the  Pope,  and  the  Church, 
and  Jew,  and  Gentile,  until  something  touched 
like  a  rasp  Ellerton's  nervous,  sensitive  nature, 
and  he  turned,  saj'ing  : 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Felice,  stop  your  ever- 
lasting clatter  about  Pope  and  Church,  and 


24  The  Angel  of  Clay 

devote  your  conversation  more  to  the  political 
arena  and  less  to  religious  matters,  which  are  a 
little  beyond  your  scope.  It  is  my  business  to 
make  statues,  and  it  is  your  business  to  cast 
them,  and  if  we  attended  a  little  more  closely 
to  our  especial  calling,  I  believe  we  would  be  a 
little  better  for  it  and  our  pocketbooks  fatter. 
Now  put  that  philosophy  in  your  old  clay  pipe 
and  smoke  it,  and  here  is  a  bottle  of  beer 
to  comfort  you  for  my  shutting  you  up  so 
abruptly.  I  am  off  to  Signer  Atwood's 
studio  for  an  hour.  Don't  come  for  me  unless 
a  telegram  or  some  urgent  matter  demands, 
and  so, —  addio." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   MODEL 

"  Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare —      '<.$£ 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind  ! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged, 

'  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for  gain,' 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems : 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules." 

BROWNING. 

IT  was  growing  dark  as  the  sculptor  passed 
down  the  street,  wrapt  in  the  life  of  the 
great  man  whose  difficult  face  seemed  to  evade 
his  grasp,  and  rang  the  bell  which  led  to  his 
friend's  studio.  The  outer  door  was  opened  by 
a  long  string  pulled  from  somewhere  in  the 
back,  and  he  passed  through  a  dark  entry  out 
into  a  yard,  up  a  flight  of  wooden  steps,  then 
up  three  stairways,  and  finally,  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  came  to  Atwood's  studio. 

The  door  was  wide  open,  for  the  afternoon 
25 


26  The  Angel  of  Clay 

was  unusually  warm  for  May,  and  Lawrence 
did  not  knock,  but  entered  quietly,  fearing  lest 
he  might  disturb  the  sitter,  if  there  should  be 
one.  The  light  was  almost  gone  in  the  studio, 
and  it  took  Lawrence  a  moment  or  two  to  get 
accustomed  to  it,  and  there,  at  the  far  end  of 
the  studio,  he  saw  a  figure  leaning  upon  one 
arm  with  face  upturned,  the  eyes  closed  as  if  in 
meditation,  or  possibly  sleep.  And  to  the  right 
of  the  figure  was  his  friend  Jack,  with  palette, 
brushes,  and  paint  thrown  down  on  the  floor 
before  him,  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  his 
chin  dropped  into  the  palms  of  his  hands, 
studying  the  figure  with  the  intentness  of  one 
who  is  wrapt  up  in  his  subject  and  is  oblivious 
to  everything  about  him. 

The  sculptor  dropped  into  a  chair  near  by, 
struck  with  the  peculiar  and  rare  beauty  of  the 
sitter.  He  recognised  at  a  glance  the  face  that 
Atwood  had  shown  him  in  the  morning,  and 
he  realised  at  the  same  moment  that  Atwood 
had  caught  but  a  part  of  the  physical  charm, 
and  that  the  model  had  much  more  beauty  of 
form  than  Atwood  had  embodied.  The  skin 
was  a  dream  of  colour.  There  are  no  words  in 
the  language  to  describe  such  beaut}*;  that  can 
only  be  told  by  the  painter  or  possibly  the 
musician.  The  sculptor  finds  himself  power- 
less to  express  the  rose-tinted  skin  of  this 
blonde  type  of  woman.  The  hair  was  of  a 


The  Model  27 

chestnut  colour,  touched  up  with  a  ray  of  gold 
here  and  there  just  sufficient  to  lighten  its 
sombreness.  If  one  could  warm  alabaster  by 
placing  near  it  a  Jacqueminot  rose,  or  take  the 
clearest  amber  and  shoot  it  through  with  the 
softness  of  the  yellow  and  red  roses  of  Southern 
France,  he  would  have  some  faint  idea  of  the 
beauty  of  such  a  shoulder  and  neck.  With 
that,  imagine  features  fairly  regular,  without 
one  trace  of  pain  or  suffering,  no  lines  in  the 
face,  soft  shadows  thrown  underneath  even 
eyebrows,  and  lips  modelled  with  the  fullness 
of  one  who  enjoys  life  and  means  to  enjoy  it  to 
the  fullest.  A  tall  figure,  well  proportioned. 

The  costume  was  that  of  Sappho.  It  had 
long  been  a  cherished  wish  of  Atwood  to  paint 
a  figure  of  the  Grecian  poetess.  He  used  to 
rave  over  the  fragments  of  poetry  Sappho  left 
behind  her.  One,  particularly,  would  thrust 
itself  upon  Lawrence  at  this  moment,  as  he 
looked  upon  the  sleeping  model. 

"Sweetest  mother,  I  can  weave  no  more  to-day 
For  such  thoughts  of  him  come  thronging — 
Him  for  whom  my  heart  is  longing — 
That  I  know  not  where  my  weary  fingers  stray." 

He  did  not  on  this  afternoon  discover  that  she 
had  every  qualification  for  the  picture  she  was 
posing  for,  but  one  ;  but  we  shall  hear  of  this 
hereafter.  Anyone  might  have  noticed  that 


28  The  A  ngel  of  Clay 

his  artistic  nature  was  greatly  moved  by  the 
physical  beauty  of  the  model. 

"  If  I  could  add  one  thing  to  that  face,  I 
should  be  able  to  create  the  figure  of  the  angel 
that  has  haunted  me  through  so  many  nights. 
Strange,"  he  thought,  "  how  closely  she  tallies 
with  this  angel  of  my  dreams.  I  wonder,  were 
I  to  put  two  soft  white  wings  on  those  shoulders, 
would  my  angel  be  complete  ?  ' ' 

The  model  turned  in  the  chair  at  this  mo- 
ment, awoke  languidly,  and  asked  Jack  in 
broken  language,  as  of  one  who  is  but  half 
awake,  if  he  had  finished  with  her  for  the  day. 

"  And  I  must  not  forget,"  she  continued, 
"  that  I  am  going  to  a  ball  to-night  and  have 
no  roses." 

"  No  doubt  there  will  be  a  bunch  at  the  door 
by  the  time  you  arrive  there,  Julia  —  Miss 
Hartmann,  I  mean,"  said  Atwood,  realising 
the  presence  of  his  friend. 

"  Miss  Hartmann  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
she  reiterated,  looking  up  and  for  the  first  time 
noticing  the  presence  of  another  man  in  the 
room. 

"Miss  Hartmann,  this  is  my  old  friend, 
Ellerton  Lawrence,  of  whom  you  have  heard 
me  speak  often  enough." 

' '  Yes,  I  have  heard  j-ou  speak  frequently  of 
Mr.  Lawrence.  Why,  it  was  he  who  was  with 
you  in  the  Latin  Quarter  in  Paris,  of  which 


The  Model  29 

you  liave  told  me  so  much  and  which  has  made 
me  so  restless  with  this  prosy  New  York  that 
I  am  thinking  seriously,  when  my  ship  conies 
in,  of  spending  the  rest  of  my  life  in  that  de- 
lightful Bohemian  Paris  of  yours.  I  think  it 
would  suit  my  tastes  perfectly.  Life  is  all  cut 
and  dried  for  you  here.  In  fact,  I  could  not 
stand  it,  if  it  were  not  for  the  studios." 

Lawrence  was  taken  aback  a  little  and  his 
finer  sensibilities  shocked  by  something,  he 
could  not  tell  what,  in  the  woman's  voice.  He 
did  not  care  to  analyse  it,  for  the  woman's 
face,  form,  and  colouring,  the  dress  draped 
about  the  shoulders  revealing  the  neck  and  the 
arms,  which  were  bare  —  all  these  things  had 
taken  possession  of  his  senses.  It  was  the 
colour  and  the  form  which  still  fascinated  him. 
He  was  saying  to  himself,  not  heeding  her 
words  : 

"  If  I  could  breathe  one  breath  of  Mabel 
Frothingham  into  that  figure,  she  would  make 
an  angel  that  would  startle  the  world  and 
heaven  itself." 

The  whole  wild  fervour  of  the  artistic  nature 
was  working  within  him.  His  own  passionate 
love  for  beauty  was  subservient  to  the  desire  to 
fasten  in  some  enduring  form  the  beauty  that 
he  saw  in  this  rare  type.  She  seemed  to  him 
as  one  of  those  strange  night  moths  which  he 
had  run  across  often  of  summer  nights  in  the 


30  The  Angel  of  Clay 

old  town  in  his  walks  about  the  garden  of  his 
home  —  of  a  loveliness  exotic  and  so  fragile 
that  he  feared  lest  a  touch  should  destroy  the 
velvety  texture  of  this  creation  born  of  the 
shadows  of  night.  In  reality  she  was  much 
the  creation  that  his  imagination  had  likened 
her  to  :  born  of  many  shadows,  brought  up 
and  nurtured  in  an  unnatural  atmosphere,  fed 
on  adulation,  starved  and  surfeited  in  turn,  and 
now  the  queen  of  a  realm  which  is  as  potent  as 
that  Cleopatra  wielded  when  the  glory  of  Ro- 
man manhood  lay  at  her  feet. 

"  Mr.  Lawrence,  you  are  a  sculptor,"  she 
said  ;  "  I  posed  once  for  a  sculptor.  It  was  for 
the  figure  of  some  Eastern  queen — I  do  not  re- 
member the  character  exactly.  In  fact,  I  have 
never  had  much  to  do  with  history  and  books. 
My  father  knew  something  about  them,  I  am 
told.  But  I  know  I  was  dressed  in  a  most 
gorgeous  costume.  Why,  it  was  only  a  year 
ago  this  May.  You  knew  him,  Mr.  Atwood  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him,"  Atwood  replied,  rather 
sadly  ;  "  he  is  dead  now. ' ' 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Hartmann  continued  ;  "I 
went  one  morning  to  his  studio,  and  when  I 
entered  I  screamed,  for  there  before  the  statue 
in  clay  he  lay  on  the  floor,  his  arms  clasped 
about  its  feet,  a  tool  in  one  of  his  hands  as  if  he 
had  been  striving  to  reach  up  to  the  statue  and 
had  been  unable  to  do  so.  The  scene  haunts 


The  Model  31 

me  still,  on  rainy  nights,  when  I  am  alone  in 
my  rooms.  I  wish  I  had  never  gone  there  or 
never  seen  him." 

She  turned  to  change  her  costume  behind  a 
screen  in  the  back  studio.  Atwood  spoke  bit- 
terly to  his  friend  : 

"  Miss  Hartmann  did  not  tell  you  why  this 
sculptor  was  found  dead.  She  had  more  to  do 
with  it  than  she  knows.  Remind  me  to  tell 
you  the  story,  one  day,  when  we  are  alone  ; 
and,  Lawrence,  let  me  warn  you.  Her  per- 
sonality is  one  you  must  beware  of.  She  is  not 
bad,  —  in  fact,  she  is  rather  kind-hearted, —  but 
irresponsible  to  a  degree  that  we  can  never 
understand,  born  and  brought  up  as  we  have 
been.  Poor  Julia !  my  heart  aches  for  her  at 
times;  and  yet,  so  far,  I  have  managed  to  keep 
my  head,  and,  as  you  say,  I  have  not  let  my 
chin  get  the  best  of  me.  By  the  by,  old  fellow, 
do  you  hear  anything  from  Mabel  Frothing- 
ham  ?  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  her,  when 
I  next  come  to  your  studio.  Do  what  I  will, 
I  cannot  get  her  out  of  my  thoughts.  I  think 
you  might  do  me  a  good  turn  there,  Lawrence, 
for  you  have  known  her  all  your  life,  and  you 
told  me  once  she  seemed  like  a  sister  to  you." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  Lawrence  responded,  "  I 
will  do  anything  I  can  for  you  with  Mabel,  you 
know  that.  But  for  all  her  sweetness  she  is  a 
determined  little  lady,  and  many  a  suitor  has 


32  The  Angel  of  Clay 

come  to  the  rectory  with  high  hopes  and  gone 
away  with  a  sad  heart.  I  know  this  from 
mother.  She  tells  her  everything. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  continued,  as  if  from  an 
after-thought,  "  Mrs.  Schuyler  is  talking  of 
going  up  to  see  mother,  in  a  fortnight  or  so. 
Why  not  go  with  us  and  try  your  fortune  with 
Mabel  then  ?  " 

Miss  Hartmann  had  now  changed  her  cos- 
tume, and  had  on  her  pretty  street  dress  and  a 
hat  with  a  veil  drawn  over  the  face,  and,  as  she 
came  forward  to  bid  Lawrence  good-bye,  At- 
wood  broke  in  with  : 

"  Lawrence,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  put 
Miss  Hartmann  on  a  car  which  passes  her 
apartment.  I  must  wash  these  brushes  and 
get  ready  to  go  out  to-night.  It  is  varnishing 
night  at  the  Academy,  and  there  '11  be  a  number 
there.  I  wish  you  would  come  in  if  you  can, 
in  the  course  of  the  evening.  I  want  to  intro- 
duce you  to  a  fellow  named  Perry,  who  is  com- 
ing to  the  studio  to  pose  for  a  portrait,  which 
he  has  given  me  to  paint,  of  his  dead  mother. 
His  eyes  and  hair  are  the  same,  he  says,  as 
hers,  and  his  face  will  help  me  greatly  in  the 
work." 

"  Strange  you  should  know  a  Perry,"  Law- 
rence replied;  "  I  had  an  old  schoolmate  of  that 
name.  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  him,  I 
believe.  He  lived  in  our  town.  Probably  no 


The  Model  33 

relative  of  this  one,  however,  for  I  have  not 
heard  of  him  for  several  years. ' ' 

Ellerton  passed  out  of  the  studio  with  Miss 
Hartmann.  It  had  grown  quite  dark  now,  and 
he  lit  her  way  with  matches  as  they  went  down 
the  stairs,  showing  her  the  natural  gallantry 
which  he  showed  to  every  woman,  no  matter 
what  her  state  or  condition  of  life,  and  to-night 
especially  to  this  girl  who  had  been  posing  as 
the  dreaming  Sappho,  and  had  thrown  about 
this  young  sculptor  a  fascination  which  he  had 
not  yet  analysed  and  which  he  did  not  care  to. 

They  walked  on  for  some  distance  and 
scarcely  a  word  was  spoken.  He  seemed 
under  a  spell,  and,  indeed,  so  he  was.  There 
is  a  kind  of  beauty  which  intoxicates  us  as 
much  as  a  strong  wine  will  do.  When  they 
got  to  the  cars  she  said  : 

"  Mr.  lyawrence,  I  believe  I  won't  ride,  but 
walk  home  to-night  and  take  the  air.  I  feel 
rather  nervous,  but  I  will  not  trouble  you  to 
come  any  farther."  But  he  insisted  that  he 
could  not  think  of  her  going  home  alone  at  this 
hour,  and  kept  steadily  at  her  side.  They  said 
but  little  ;  and  Lawrence  could  not  help  think- 
ing that  she  must  think  him  very  stupid,  and 
yet  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  speak  natur- 
ally, and  all  his  expressions  seemed  false.  He 
asked  her  if  she  liked  music.  She  said  she 
cared  for  the  opera,  and  the  excitement,  the 

3 


34  The  Angel  of  Clay 

bright  dresses,  and  the  flowers  ;  that  she  had 
Italian  blood  in  her  veins  in  spite  of  her  colour- 
ing, and  that  she  believed  all  Italians  were  born 
with  a  love  for  music.  After  a  few  broken 
sentences  and  exclamations,  and  no  real  con- 
versation, they  came  to  the  door  of  an  apart- 
ment-house between  the  Park  and  a  square 
on  the  West  Side,  in  a  respectable  part  of  the 
city,  and  she  bade  him  good-night  after  pro- 
mising to  come  to  his  studio  in  the  following 
week  to  see  a  sketch  he  had  made  for  the  figure 
of  an  angel. 

He  had  said  nothing  about  her  posing. 


CHAPTER  V 

MORE    FRIENDS 

"  As  poets  should, 
Thou  hast  built  up  thy  hardihood 
With  universal  food  ; 

Drawn  in  select  proportion  fair 
From  honest  mould  and  vagabond  air; 
From  darkness  of  the  dreadful  night, 
And  joyful  light." 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

LAWRENCE'S  studio,  as  we  have  said, 
was  a  rendezvous  for  men,  young  and 
old,  who  were  interested  in  different  move- 
ments for  the  bettering  of  humanity,  as  well  as 
in  art.  Among  these  men  there  was  one  espe- 
cially dear  to  the  sculptor,  by  name  Richmond 
Brewer,  an  enthusiastic  socialist,  at  that  time 
in  the  editorial  department  of  one  of  the  lead- 
ing newspapers.  It  was  at  the  dedication  of 
Lawrence's  first  statue  that  he  met  Brewer, 
being  introduced  to  him  by  Professor  Drum- 
mond,  an  old  friend  of  Ellerton's,  and  a  man 
of  wide  learning.  The  men  took  a  liking  to 
one  another  from  the  first  moment.  Brewer 

35 


36 

expressed  a  frank  admiration  for  Lawrence's 
work,  and  something  in  the  face  of  Brewer  at- 
tracted the  artist.  As  the  days  went  on  they 
met  as  often  as  is  possible  for  men  whose  lives 
are  busy  in  the  full  stream  of  modern  life. 
When  they  did  not  speak  of  art  it  was  generally 
of  poetry,  of  which  both  were  very  fond. 

Another  friend  who  came  frequently  to  the 
studio,  whose  life  touched  and  uplifted  the 
lives  of  all  with  whom  he  was  thrown  profes- 
sionally or  in  private  life,  was  one  who  shall  be 
known  in  these  pages  as  the  "  Good  Physi- 
cian " —  for  good  he  was  in  its  truest  sense. 
He  had  been  very  close  to  Ellerton  since  the 
latter  came  to  town  and  took  a  studio  there. 
His  office  was  about  ten  blocks  away,  but  no 
week  passed  without  Lawrence  finding  his  way 
there  or  the  Good  Physician  dropping  in  upon 
the  sculptor  as  the  day's  work  was  done.  The 
latter  had  a  peculiar  faculty  for  saddling  him- 
self with  what  are  known  among  artists  as 
"  poor  devils  "  Men  who  had  been  unfortunate 
in  all  conditions  of  life  seemed  to  drift  to  his 
studio,  and  in  some  way  to  feel  that  they  had 
a  right  to  call  upon  his  sympathy  or  his  purse. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  Good  Physician  and 
Atwood,  Ellerton  would  soon  have  had  to  close 
the  studio  door  and  give  himself  utterly  to  the 
care  of  the  unfortunate. 

When  the  physician  would  chance  in  and 


More  Friends  37 

find  Ellerton,  his  work  laid  aside,  listening  pa- 
tiently to  some  tale  of  woe,  he  would  take  the 
stranger  aside  and  get  the  truth  from  him  by 
a  few  well-directed  questions.  But  he  would 
keep  the  sculptor  in  the  back  studio  while, 
with  his  hard  common  sense,  he  got  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  stranger's  need,  and  either  sent  him 
away  with  some  well  deserved  reprimand  for 
troubling  an  artist  at  his  work  or  else  to  some 
institution  where  people  in  his  unfortunate  con- 
dition were  cared  for. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  Lawrence  would  say, 
"  if  it  were  not  for  you,  these  fellows  would 
make  short  shrift  of  me." 

"  Well,  if  I  protect  you  in  one  way,  you 
make  it  up  to  me,  Ellerton,  in  another." 


CHAPTER  VI 

MABEL  FROTHINGHAM  AND   PERRY 

"She  is  a  woman  ;  one  in  whom 

The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  sweet  perfume, 
Through  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears." 

LOWELI,. 

AS  long  as  she  could  remember,  Mabel 
Frothingham  had  heard  the  birds  sing- 
ing about  the  old  garden,  and  as  long  as  she 
could  remember,  she  had  sung  back  to  them. 
She  had  not  only  song  in  common  with  the 
birds,  but  many  other  characteristics  which 
endeared  her  to  the  townspeople.  There  was 
not  a  cottage  where  the  angel  of  suffering  and 
death  -had  not  been  met  by  this  angel  of  pa- 
tience and  hope.  She  belonged  to  the  town  as 
much  as  the  old  trees  which  swung  over  the 
roads,  shutting  out  the  hot  sun  and  playing 
strange  freaks  with  the  moonlight,  and  as  the 
stars  which  shone  down  steadfastly  from  over- 
head. Painters  who  strayed  into  the  town 
from  time  to  time  thought  it  a  privilege  to  be 
38 


Mabel  Frothingham  and  Perry    39 

asked  to  tea  in  the  study  of  the  rector,  where 
Mabel  presided,  taking  care  of  her  father's 
home  while  he  took  care  of  the  eternal  welfare 
of  the  townspeople.  She  had  a  quiet  dignity 
and  a  reserved  sweetness  that  made  her  appear 
older  than  her  face  and  her  years. 

The  rector  was  a  man  of  sixty,  of  medium 
height,  delicate  physique,  and  a  spiritual  face. 
He  wore  the  side-whiskers,  and  had  the  accent, 
of  an  Englishman,  or  of  one  who  had  lived  in 
or  about  Boston,  and  who  had  passed  some 
years  in  a  university  town  in  England.  He 
was  not  a  forceful  man,  but  he  was  the  very 
man  to  meet  the  conditions  of  the  surroundings 
he  found  in  his  parish,  and  he  wrought  there 
more  by  love  than  by  force  of  will  or  intellect. 
He  was  a  man  of  scholarly  attainments,  how- 
ever, without  being  great  as  a  student  or  a 
philosopher.  It  was  not  hard  intellectuality  but 
loving  sympathy  that  his  people  most  wanted. 
In  earlier  life  he  had  travelled  about  the  Con- 
tinent enough  to  touch  life  on  many  sides  and 
to  see  the  best  in  art  and  literature,  and  he  had 
returned  to  his  own  land  after  the  loss  of  his 
only  son, —  who  had  been  accidentally  shot  at 
an  initiation  into  a  Greek-better  Society, — to 
dedicate  whatever  days  remained,  as  he  ex- 
pressed to  Lawrence  on  one  occasion,  to  mak- 
ing the  world  a  little  better  for  his  having  lived 
in  it. 


40  Tfie  Angel  of  Clay 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  would  say,  as  he  took 
the  young  man  lovingly  by  the  arm,  "  my  dear 
boy,  remember  this,  that  you  pass  through  the 
world  but  once.  There  are  many  roads  which 
you  travel  for  the  first  time  and  will  never  be 
permitted  to  pass  again ;  therefore,  my  boy,  do 
what  good  you  can  to  those  who  meet  you, 
while  you  have  the  chance.  If  you  can  give 
them  nothing  more  than  a  pleasant  word  or  a 
happy  smile,  give  this  with  a  glad  heart  and 
learn  the  blessedness  of  giving.  With  your 
gifts  and  your  nature,  the  desire  will  come  to 
you  to  gather  up  the  things  of  this  life  for 
which  all  men  strive — fame,  reputation,  money, 
all  the  accessories  which  make  life  delight- 
ful and  that  cater  to  the  intellect  and  to  the 
senses,  power,  and  that  greatest  of  all  things, 
the  love  of  woman.  All  these  you  may  have 
if  you  care  to  strive  for  them,  or  if  you  find 
them  worthy  of  your  best  effort.  But,  no  mat- 
ter what  you  strive  for,  you  can  get  from  the 
world  only  what  you  bring  to  it.  Men  imagine 
that  it  is  not  so.  They  say  that  they  have 
devoted  their  lives  to  the  study  of  this  art  or 
that  science  or  mercantile  pursuit,  and  it  has 
left  them  in  middle  life  little  better  than 
paupers.  You  look  into  such  a  life  and  you 
find  that  they  have  not  in  truth  given  them- 
selves to  the  things  they  desired  greatly  to  pos- 
sess, but  the  actual  self,  their  heart's  desire, 


Mabel  FrotJiingham  and  Perry    41 

was  given  to  some  other  occupation  or  dissipa- 
tion, and  this  they  acquire,  good  or  bad.  Some 
have  thought  too  much  of  their  fellow-men  to 
devote  themselves  selfishly  to  the  pursuit  of  an 
art  or  a  science  which  demands  all  of  the  man ; 
therefore  they  have  not  achieved  the  greatest 
success  in  that  direction.  But  you  and  I  be- 
lieve that  such  men  have  achieved  something 
which  is  of  more  enduring  worth  than  all  the 
arts  of  the  earth.  We  believe,  you  and  I, 
Ellerton," — he  had  a  comforting  way  of  mak- 
ing the  young  man  his  chum  by  including  him 
in  all  the  spiritual  achievement  he  had  attained, 
— "  we  know  that  the  making  of  a  man  is  the 
greatest  work  in  the  world,  and  that  it  is  better 
to  round  out  life  on  some  grand  plan  or  scale 
than  to  create  a  world  of  art." 

On  this  particular  Sunday,  the  day  after 
Lawrence  had  arrived  home, —  for  scarcely  a 
fortnight  passed  without  his  making  a  trip  to 
his  mother's  house, —  he  had  ridden  to  church 
with  his  mother,  and  the  rector  had  invited 
them  both  to  drive  around  to  the  rectory  and 
stay  through  the  afternoon  for  a  cup  of  tea, 
promising  to  walk  back  with  them  through  the 
twilight.  So  the  mother  and  Mabel  drove  in 
the  Lawrences'  old  family  carriage  and  the 
rector  and  Ellerton  walked  on  and  on,  holding 
the  conversation  just  referred  to. 

From  his  boyhood  Ellerton  had  known  the 


42  The  Angel  of  Clay 

rector  ;  the  old  man  had  pulled  him  out  of 
many  a  scrape,  and  his  kindly  talks  had  saved 
him  from  the  pitfalls  into  which  many  of  his  com- 
panions had  fallen,  to  the  ruin  of  the  finer  man. 
Their  conversation  drifted  from  subject  to  sub- 
ject, and  finally  the  rector  asked  Lawrence  about 
a  friend,  one  of  the  boy's  dearest  companions, 
who  had  gone  up  with  him  to  the  city  years  ago, 
and  never  returned  but  once  to  the  old  town. 

"  I  wish,  Mr.  Frothingham,  I  could  give  you 
some  good  news  of  Perry,  but  I  cannot,  though, 
strangely  enough,  my  chum  mentioned  him  the 
other  day.  Yet  I  have  hopes  for  him  ;  he  still 
holds  his  old  place  in  my  heart,  although  he 
has  forfeited  his  position  in  the  society  of  the 
men  we  knew  in  town,  and  I  could  not  now 
take  him  to  your  house  to  meet  Mabel,  because 
he  has  dragged  his  nature  —  and  a  beautiful 
nature  it  once  was  —  through  the  mire.  Poor 
Perry  !  My  heart  aches  for  him,  and  if  the 
time  ever  comes  when  he  should  care  to  change 
his  life  for  the  old  one  we  once  lived  together, 
I  shall  meet  him  half  way,  forget  the  past,  take 
up  the  new  life,  and  let  the  seven  years  that 
have  gone  drop  out  of  existence  as  if  they  had 
never  been." 

"  Lawrence,"  interrupted  Mr.  Frothingham, 
"is  it  true  that  he  not  only  has  become  a 
gambler,  but  has  actually  been  the  head  of  a 
gambling  den  in  the  city  ?  " 


Mabel  Frothingham  and  Perry    43 

"  I  fear  all  this  is  true,"  replied  Lawrence, 
"  and  perhaps  more." 

"  Is  it  true  that  Mrs.  Manning  entrusted  all 
her  funds  into  his  keeping  because  his  face  was 
so  like  the  face  of  her  boy  who  was  killed  eight 
years  ago  on  the  railroad  while  with  Perry,  and 
that  he  put  these  funds  into  a  faro  bank  in 
New  York  City,  and  at  that  very  time  was 
living  in  your  apartment  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  All  that  is  true,  Mr.  Frothingham,"  Eller- 
ton  replied,  drawing  a  long  breath,"  and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  day  I  discovered  there  were 
two  Perrys.  I  had  come  home  to  my  rooms, 
or  rather  the  room  we  held  in  common,  in  the 
early  afternoon — a  thing  unusual  for  me,  for  I 
worked  late  at  the  studio  in  those  days — I  had 
returned,  as  I  said,  to  my  rooms,  and  had 
picked  up  a  volume  of  Shelley.  I  remember 
the  day  and  the  book  and  the  verse.  The 
thing  is  like  a  nightmare  to  me  now,  and  I  re- 
call it  with  the  vividness  with  which  horrible 
things  seem  to  haunt  us.  'T  was  the  last  verse 
of  Shelley's  '  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,'  and  I 
was  wrapt  up  in  it.  You  remember  the  verse, 
don't  you  ?  It  runs  like  this  : 

''Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth, 
The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     O  wind, 
If  winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind  ? ' 


44  The  Angel  of  Clay 

I  was  pulling  myself  out  of  a  fit  of  the  blues 
with  this  splendid  invocation,  when  a  sharp 
knock,  repeated,  as  if  it  were  a  secret  sign, 
came  at  the  door  and  a  man  entered  without 
noise  in  answer  to  my  call.  The  face  repelled 
me  at  once, —  low  brow,  large  moustache, 
while  the  eyes  had  a  water}-,  uncertain  look 
and  never  fastened  on  mine  once  while  he  was 
in  the  room.  '  Mr.  Perry  here  ?  '  he  asked 
gruffly,  as  one  who  had  some  authority  and 
who  had  been  here  before  to  find  him.  '  No,' 
I  replied,  '  but  I  can  transact  any  business  for 
him,  for  I  am.  his  chum.  I  know  all  his  affairs, 
as  he  knows  mine,  and  if  you  want  anj'thing 
of  him,  you  can  have  it  of  me,  provided  you 
have  any  right  to  anything  of  his.'  I  did  not 
add  what  I  felt,  namely,  that  I  did  not  believe 
that  there  was  much  aside  from  Perry's  cast-off 
clothing  that  would  fit  such  a  face  or  character. 
'  So  you  can  transact  any  business  for  Mr. 
Perry  ? '  he  replied,  taking  the  words  out  of 
my  mouth.  '  Yes,  I  believe  I  can,'  I  replied 
sharpljr.  '  Well,  then,  if  that  is  the  case,  I 
have  found  what  he  is  looking  for,  and  the 
landlord,  who  is  an  odd  cove,  wants  some 
money  down  at  once  as  a  guaranty  that  we 
mean  to  hold  the  premises  for  at  least  six 
months,  and  he  swears  he  will  not  squeal,  and 
nobody  need  know  that  our  little  bank  is  con- 
ducted on  different  principles  from  the  business 


Mabel  Frothingham  and  Perry     45 

of  Drexel,  Morgan  &  Co.'  '  I  don't  quite 
understand  you,'  I  replied.  '  Well,  I  can 
make  it  clear  to  you  in  two  minutes,'  the  fellow 
said.  '  Perry,  with  whom  I  have  done  business 
in  one  way  or  another  for  the  last  two  or  three 
years,  promised  me  fifty  plunks  if  I  could  find 
him  a  place  where  he  could  carry  on  a  bank  of 
his  own,  and  I  have  been  looking  about  for  two 
weeks,  until  by  good  luck  I  struck  one  on  the 
West  Side  last  night.'  'A  faro  bank?'  I 
looked  the  man  straight  in  the  face,  but  he 
evaded  my  eyes  as  he  had  done  since  he  entered 
the  room.  '  Yes,'  the  fellow  replied,  '  if  you 
know  his  business  you  must  know  that  there 
is  no  keener  hand  at  faro  in  New  York  City 
than  the  Commodore,  as  we  call  him.'  Com- 
modore, and  faro  bank,  and  the  West  Side, 
and  this  man's  face,  and  Perry's  large  blue 
eyes  were  all  going  round  and  round  the  room, 
and  I  managed  to  drop  into  an  armchair  at 
hand  and  closed  my  eyes,  so  that  this  indi- 
vidual might  not  discover  my  surprise  and  be- 
wilderment. Dear,  dear  God!  I  thought,  my 
own  best  loved  and  trusted  friend,  who  had 
stood  by  me  through  thick  and  thin  ;  paid  my 
debts  once  when  I  was  in  trouble,  and  saved 
me  from  the  scrapes  into  which  every  artist 
falls  who  has  a  kindly  nature  and  no  business 
ability.  Perry,  who  had  eaten,  drunk,  and 
slept  with  me  from  the  days  we  were  at 


46  The  Angel  of  Clay 

boarding-school  together,  and  who  stood  up 
once  and  thrashed  the  master  who  was  about  to 
thrash  me.  I  thought  of  his  mother.  I  had 
stood  at  her  dying  bedside  with  Perry, —  only 
two  of  us  and  the  physician,  and  she  had  said 
to  me,  '  I/awrence,  you  love  my  boy,  no  matter 
what  comes,'  and  I  had  promised  her  that  I 
would  stand  by  him  and  love  him  always. 
All  this  passed  through  my  mind  while  that 
fellow  was  still  standing  there  with  his  hat  on 
his  head,  glancing  about  the  apartment.  I  felt 
like  a  man  who  had  been  struck  in  the  face 
and  whose  wits  had  gone  for  the  moment. 
Slowly  I  gathered  up  the  loose  ends,  and 
brought  my  eyes  to  bear  on  this  specimen  of 
humanity,  who  stood  claiming  himself  to  be 
the  companion  or  employe  of  my  chum.  '  I 
was  mistaken,'  I  said  to  him,  '  when  I  told 
you  I  knew  all  of  Mr.  Perry's  affairs.  You 
will  have  to  see  him  in  person.  I  know  no- 
thing about  this  bank  to  which  you  refer.' 
'  Oh,  very  well,'  said  the  fellow,  '  I  will  come  in 
later  ;  and  by  the  by,  could  you  not  give  me 
something  to  drink,  for  I  am  as  dry  as  a 
whistle.'  I  had  a  strong  impulse  to  kick  the 
man  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs.  I 
thought  how  many  stairs  there  were.  I  knew 
them  well,  for  I  used  to  come  home  so  tired 
that  the  last  ones  seemed  like  mountains  in  the 
distance.  But  I  remember  thinking  that  the 


Mabel  Frothingham  and  Perry    47 

man  had  some  claims  on  Perry,  and  that  I 
should  have  to  treat  him  with  some  decency  at 
least.  This  much  I  did  say,  however,  that  we 
did  not  keep  a  barroom  there,  and  he  could 
get  something  to  drink  on  Broadway,  if  he 
needed  it.  He  went  out,  slamming  the  door 
behind  him,  and  I  could  hear  him  going  out 
into  the  street.  I  rose  from  my  chair  dazed, 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  Finally  I 
sank  down  into  the  chair  again,  and  thought 
of  the  old  days  and  Perry  at  school  with  me, 
and  the  boats  we  had  owned  together,  and  how 
he  had  taught  me  to  sail,  for  he  knew  all  about 
shipping  and  yachts,  and  this  miserable  scene 
slipped  away  in  the  old  memories — when  I  was 
startled  by  Perry's  cheery  voice,  calling  to  me 
from  the  other  room.  '  Well,  old  fellow,  dream- 
ing again,  eh  ?  Sitting  like  Michelangelo  in  the 
picture  there,  and  thinking  about  your  "  Mo- 
ses," I  suppose,  or  some  fine  "  Venus  "  you  are 
going  to  cut  out  of  the  marble  some  day  when 
we  get  rich  and  I  can  own  a  quarry  over  there 
in  Italy.  By  the  by,'  he  went  on,  '  you  know, 
Bl,' — El  was  what  he  always  called  me  when  we 
were  together, — '  I  am  going  to  make  a  lot  of 
money  soon,  and  I  want  )'ou  to  take  part  of  it 
and  go  to  Paris  and  stay  there  as  long  as  you 
wish  and  then  come  back  here  and  knock  all 
these  fellows  out,  and  win  a  name  and  fame  for 
yourself  and  make  your  mother  everlastingly 


48  The  Angel  of  Clay 

proud  of  you. '  As  he  spoke  these  last  words 
about  my  mother  he  turned  from  the  glass 
where  he  was  trying  on  a  new  scarf, — for  he 
was  one  of  the  best-dressed  men  in  town, — 
and  looked  me  full  in  the  face.  I  remember  his 
eyes  to  this  moment  —  large  blue  eyes,  as  inno- 
cent as  a  baby's;  the  bright  colour  of  a  healthy 
country  boy,  a  thick-set  physique  that  could 
withstand  any  hardship  that  bone  and  muscle 
run  up  against.  I  could  not  reply,  for  I  felt  a 
peculiar  choking  in  my  throat,  a  strange  numb- 
ness at  my  heart.  Finally  I  managed  to  blurt 
out  something  about  his  always  thinking  of  my 
good — which  was  a  fact,  for  the  fellow  thought 
much  more  of  my  good  than  of  his  own.  He 
went  on  dressing  and  I  sat  there  with  the  Shel- 
ley still  in  my  hands,  stupefied,  following  out, 
or  trying  to,  the  dual  life  of  this  man,  who  had 
been  more  to  me  than  any  brother  ever  could 
have  been.  '  Well,'  he  said  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, '  I  am  off,  across  to  the  West  Side  on 
business,  and  I  '11  not  be  back  till  late  to-night. 
Don't  wait  for  me,  and  I  will  come  in  quietly 
so  as  not  to  wake  you.  Good-bye,  old  man  ; 
mind  you  don't  get  the  blues,  and  remember 
that  I  am  going  to  make  a  trip  possible  for 
you  before  many  years  have  passed  over  our 
heads.'  " 

Mr.  Frothingham  had  listened  intently  to 
the  whole  narrative,  not  interrupting  FJlerton 


Mabel  Frothingham  and  Perry    49 

once,  and  when  Lawrence  looked  up, —  for  the 
minister  had  found  a  quiet  seat  for  them  by  the 
roadside, — he  saw  the  old  man's  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

"  Well,  well,  my  boy,"  said  the  rector  slowly, 
' '  let  us  pray  that  our  Prodigal  may  yet  return. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  NEW  ENGLAND   HOME 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple-blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms, 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread." 


IT  was  the  second  night  after  L/awrence's 
arrival  home  that  his  mother  invited  Mabel 
to  come  to  tea  in  the  old  garden,  saying  that 
Ellerton  would  see  her  home  afterwards.  She 
came,  and  the  three  sat  down  together  as  of 
old,  in  the  arbour  on  a  little  knoll  near  the 
house,  under  the  pine-trees,  and  with  the  fallen 
needles  as  a  carpet.  The  sweet  odour  of  the 
pine-trees  seemed  grateful  to  Ellerton's  lungs 
after  the  close  city  studios. 

"  Dear  me,  mother,"  he  said,  "  and  Mabel," 
—  for  he  put  them  in  the  same  category  uncon- 
sciously, —  "  why  cannot  men  live  natural  lives 
among  natural  things  ?  The  city  is  such  a  hot- 
house, and  the  forcing  system,  for  all  its  exotics, 
seems  at  times  a  sad  failure.  I  get  back  here 
close  to  nature  and  }'ou  both,  —  who  are  sweet, 
50 


A  New  England  Home  5 1 

natural  women, —  awa)r  from  the  town  with  its 
affectations  and  change  of  costume  for  every 
hour  and  every  occasion,  and  I  feel  in  my  heart 
that  I  could  be  a  better  man  and  a  better  artist 
if  I  never  left  the  place  again,  but  stayed,  like 
Millet  at  Barbizon,  living  a  natural,  simple  life, 
the  Bible  for  literature,  and  doing  the  great  art 
that  comes  from  such  an  order  of  living." 

"  But,  Ellerton,"  Mabel  interrupted,  "  that 
would  be  all  very  well  for  you  and  your  art, 
but  how  about  the  world  for  which  you  are  to 
do  such  great  things  ?  " 

"  True,  Mabel,  and  that  is  what  takes  a  man 
back  into  the  hurly-burly,  and  keeps  him  from 
committing  suicide  when  he  gets  the  blues 
there.  If  we  are  to  live  there  like  ants  in  an 
ant-hill,  why  we  must  busy  ourselves,  or  seem 
to  be  busy, —  as  they  do  for  the  most  part, — 
running  about  excitedly  and  wearing  ourselves 
out  —  often  with  little  purpose,  I  am  afraid." 

"  My  boy  Ellerton,"  the  mother  said,  "  you 
must  comfort  yourself  with  the  thought  that 
you  not  only  go  down  to  the  city  to  earn  your 
livelihood,  but  because  as  a  man  it  is  your 
life  and  your  work  to  meet  there  men  of  all 
vocations  and  stations  in  life,  and  to  learn  from 
each  the  good  he  has  to  bring  with  him,  to 
avoid  the  evil,  to  carry  what  sweetness  you  can 
and  the  blessings  of  this  dear  home  with  you, 
into  the  sin  and  the  suffering,  and  to  leave  them 


52  The  Angel  of  Clay 

there  with  others  who  have  never  been  blessed 
like  you." 

"  My  dear  little  mother,  all  that  is  so  like 
you  ;  and  what  you  have  said  and  what  Mabel 
says  is  all  true.  But,  for  all  that,  I  love  the 
sounds  and  sights  of  the  country,  and  the  city 
is  a  prison  to  me.  Yet  when  I  am  there,  I  en- 
joy the  life  and  the  art,  though  I  feel  it  is  an 
acquired  taste,  not  a  natural  one.  Do  you 
know,"  Lawrence  continued,  "  I  believe  that, 
if  we  only  knew  how,  we  might  sit  still  and 
grow  strong  without  effort,  merely  by  opening 
ourselves  out  to  the  influences  that  God  has 
thrown  about  us.  But  we  seek  stimulants  and 
intoxicants,  anything  to  produce  a  new  emo- 
tion, and  then  something  to  kill  that  emotion 
when  it  has  been  produced.  To  me  the  most 
pitiable  man  in  creation  is  the  thoroughgoing 
club-man  of  New  York  or  London.  If  he  have 
a  family,  a  wife  and  children,  I  do  not  know 
when  he  ever  sees  them,  for,  drop  in  at  the  club 
any  evening,  no  matter  how  late,  and  almost 
any  afternoon,  and  he  is  there  playing  cards  or 
billiards,  or  amusing  himself  in  the  refined  way 
of  this  nineteenth  century  by  drinking  one 
thing  after  another  until  he  is  hardly  able  to 
find  his  way  home.  You  see  him  next  morn- 
ing in  the  streets  ;  his  eyes  are  heavy,  he  has 
taken  something  to  clear  his  head  and  fit  him 
for  business,  and  his  face  gradually  grows  to 


A  New  England  Home  53 

suit  his  life.  He  seems  the  very  opposite  of 
all  God  intended  a  man  to  be." 

Ellerton  ran  on  in  this  way,  the  mother 
working  on  some  pretty  piece  of  embroidery, 
and  Mabel  looking  up  at  him  with  great 
wondering  eyes,  into  whose  brown  depths 
many  a  lover  had  looked  for  some  response  to 
his  own  feelings,  but  so  far  in  vain. 

For  the  first  day  or  two  after  his  return  into 
the  country  and  its  simple,  healthful  living, 
Ellerton,  as  usual,  poured  out  his  heart,  and 
the  bitterness  and  anxieties  accumulated 
there,  to  his  mother,  and  quite  freely  to  Mabel 
also,  if  she  happened  to  be  there.  Once  thor- 
oughly rested,  every  trace  of  bitterness  disap- 
peared, and  the  world  looked  brighter  on  every 
side.  The  life  in  the  saddle,  and  the  walks 
over  the  hills  with  his  dogs,  had  made  him 
whole  and  sane  again.  There  were  four  dogs, 
all  told.  Some  he  had  picked  up  in  his  travels, 
and  one  he  had  brought  back  with  him  from 
New  York.  His  favourite  was  a  French  poodle, 
which  had  slept  on  his  bed,  as  he  expressed  it, 
for  nearly  two  years  when  he  was  working  in 
Paris. 

"  I  am  more  fond  of  Nonsense"  —  for  that 
was  the  dog's  name  — "  I  am  more  fond  of 
Nonsense  than  the  others,  because  he  was 
with  me  during  an  awful  tough  period  of  my 
life — such  a  period  as  no  one  knows  who  has 


54  The  Angel  of  Clay 

not  constructed  a  large  monument  and  gone 
through  all  the  trouble  from  its  inception  to  its 
completion.  Then,  too,  aside  from  my  work, 
life  pressed  very  heavily  on  me  in  those  days. 
I  had  only  two  comforts  apart  from  you,  dear 
mother,  and  Mabel :  they  were  this  poor  poodle, 
who  knows  everything  that  all  other  dogs  know 
and  more  than  many  men,  and  my  faithful 
Felice." 

At  this  moment,  the  maid  came  from  the 
house,  bearing  the  tea-tray,  with  its  array  of 
cups,  cream,  and  all  the  other  things  which 
make  afternoon  tea  attractive  in  the  garden. 
Mabel  relieved  Mrs.  I,awrence  of  the  care,  as 
she  relieved  her  of  many  more  serious  duties 
about  the  house  and  neighbourhood.  Any 
looker-on  might  have  seen  the  mother  lift  her 
eyes  from  time  to  time  from  her  work,  and  look 
first  at  her  son  and  then  at  Mabel,  and  it  would 
not  have  taken  a  man  versed  deeply  in  thought- 
reading  to  see  that  the  girl  was  almost  as  dear 
to  her  as  the  son,  and  that  anything  that  would 
have  brought  the  girl  into  closer  relationship 
with  the  young  man  would  have  been  welcome 
to  the  mother,  indeed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

UNDER  THE   MOONLIGHT 

"  Only — but  this  is  rare — 

When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 
When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 

Of  the  interminable  hours, 
Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 
When  our  world-deafen 'd  ear 

Is  by  the  tones  of  a  loved  voice  caress'd — 

A  bolt  is  shot  back  somewhere  in  our  breast, 
And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again." 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

AFTER  tea,  Mabel  played  something-  for 
them  on  a  zither,  and  then  the  ladies 
rested  with  folded  hands,  while  Ellerton  read 
to  them  from  the  poets  they  loved.  Many  were 
the  talks  and  the  readings  and  the  music  they 
had  had  under  these  pines  in  the  garden,  and, 
as  they  looked  up  at  the  great  swaying  branches 
through  which  the  south  wind  blew  so  gently 
and  with  such  soothing  music,  they  did  not 
dream,  then,  that  within  a  very  few  years  and 
even  months  the  place  should  know  them 
under  very  different  circumstances,  and  that 

55 


56  The  Angel  of  Clay 

their  hearts  would  be  torn  by  the  strange 
tragedy  of  human  life,  just  as  in  winter  the 
north  winds  tore  like  jagged  rocks  through 
these  great  branches,  making  havoc  even  with 
their  sturdy  strength. 

It  had  grown  late,  and  the  mother,  or  at 
least  Ellerton,  who  ever  guarded  his  mother 
from  a  possible  cold  or  chill,  said  they  must  re- 
turn to  the  house  ;  there  they  passed  the  rest 
of  the  evening  listening  to  Mabel  at  the  piano. 
She  played  a  beautiful  thing  from  Jansen,  and 
the  songs  of  Grieg — so  pathetic  and  beautiful. 
The  girl  had  had  a  thorough  technical  train- 
ing, but  she  played  as  a  natural  artist.  It  was 
the  touch  and  not  the  technique  which  made 
her  music  a  comfort  and  an  inspiration  to  those 
who  listened. 

"  To  hear  you  play,"  Ellerton  said  to  her, 
"  gives  the  lie  to  all  this  nonsense  men  are 
talking  to-day  about  the  technique  in  art  and 
the  way  a  thing  is  done  being  more  than  the 
thing  itself.  I  wonder  how  much  of  this  talk 
you  have  heard  here,  Mabel  ?  You  see,  wher- 
ever there  are  schools,  there  are  sure  to  be  fads. 
There  is  one  year,  when  some  erratic  fellow  in 
the  school  will  paint  everything  very  brown. 
Then  all  the  men  fall  into  line  like  a  flock  of 
sheep,  and  they  cannot  find  sufficient  brown 
paint  in  the  shops  to  carry  out  their  desires. 
And  the  next  year,  some  fellow  catches  at  a 


Under  the  Moonlight  5  7 

half-truth  and  declares  everything  in  nature  to 
be  blue.  Then  all  the  other  men  in  the  school 
proceed  to  paint  the  things  blue,  and  the  paint- 
shops  unload  all  the  blue  paint  they  have  had 
in  stock  for  years.  Then  the  schools,  you 
know,  give  receipts  for  colour,  and  tell  you 
how  to  make  statues,  and  to  do  all  those 
things  which  are  possible  only  to  men  who  are 
born  artists  and  who  would  create  them  in  or 
out  of  schools,  just  the  same.  The  fact  is,  as 
the  professor  said  in  my  studio  the  other  day, 
'  Schools  are  for  men  who  need  schooling. 
Genius  learns  for  itself  in  whatever  environ- 
ment it  may  be  placed.'  " 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  Ellerton,"  Mabel 
said;  "  and  yet  are  not  schools  necessary;  and 
instead  of  belittling  them,  should  we  not  at- 
tempt to  perfect  them  so  that  the  children  may 
be  educated  and  not  merely  trained,  as  is  the 
case  largely  to-day  ?  " 

The  great  hall  clock,  with  its  ship  sailing 
through  the  rough  waves  of  adversity,  here 
struck  ten  in  slow,  distinct,  sonorous  tones,  and 
Mabel  arose,  saying  she  would  have  to  go 
home  now. 

She  bent  over  Mrs.  Lawrence,  kissing  her 
sweetly  ;  the  woman  put  one  arm  around  the 
girl  and  drew  her  down,  saying  softly  to  her  : 

"  Good-night,  my  darling,  and  may  God 
bless  you  !  ' ' 


58  The  Angel  of  Clay 

Mabel  went  out,  Ellerton  at  her  side, —  out 
under  the  long  row  of  trees  that  led  to  the 
high-road.  It  was  a  half-mile  or  more  to  the 
rectory,  and  somehow  ,the  conversation  turned 
on  Perry. 

"  Do  you  know,  Ellerton,  that  he  was  here 
a  fortnight  ago,  in  town  ?  " 

"  What!  Perry  here?  What  was  he  doing 
here  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  brought  him  here,  but 
he  sent  a  note  asking  me  to  meet  him  at  the 
foot  of  our  garden-path  by  the  river,  stating 
that  he  wanted  to  ask  my  advice  about  a  great 
change  in  his  life,  and  for  the  sake  of  old  times 
when  we  had  been  children  together  not  to 
be  afraid, —  that  he  had  alwa)7s  associated  me 
with  his  dying  mother." 

"  And  did  you  go,  Mabel  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  she  replied,  "  and  he  came  up 
in  a  boat  from  the  village  a  few  moments  after 
I  had  arrived  there,  stepped  out,  greeted  me 
respectfully,  and  entered  into  a  long  talk  about 
a  proposed  change  in  his  life,  and  his  quitting 
the  country  and  trying  to  make  a  fresh  start. 
Do  you  know,  Ellerton,  he  seemed  very  much 
in  earnest,  and  I  listened  to  all  he  had  to 
say,  and  did  what  I  could  in  my  own  poor 
way  to  encourage  him.  When  I  spoke  of  his 
saintly  mother,  the  tears  streamed  down  his 
face." 


Under  the  Moonlight  59 

The  subject  was  a  painful  one  to  Lawrence, 
and  he  changed  it. 

"  Mabel,  I  want  to  tell  you  here,  under  these 
silent,  steadfast  stars,  what  a  saving  grace  your 
pure  affection  has  been  to  me  i  n  all  the  changes 
and  chances  of  my  life  and  my  study  abroad." 
And  here  the  career  of  Perry  came  up  before 
him,  mute  witness  to  the  truth  of  his  words. 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  her,  quite  ingenu- 
ously, of  the  life  men  led  in  Paris,  just  as  one 
might  speak  to  a  sister.  When  he  had  finished 
she  said  : 

"  If  I  have  been  of  any  help  or  inspiration  in 
your  life,  Ellerton,  it  is  nothing  in  comparison 
with  what  your  mother  and  you  — ' '  she  hesi- 
tated, finally  found  words,  and  went  on  in  a 
low  tone,  which  began  to  break  a  little  as  she 
leaned  against  the  rustic  fence  by  the  roadside. 
She  seemed  so  disturbed  that  Ellerton  won- 
dered if  she  had  had  any  painful  scenes  with 
Perry.  But,  controlling  herself,  Mabel  went 
on  : 

"  From  the  first,  I  have  kept  nothing  from 
you,  Ellerton,  and  now  that  I  realise  that  I  am 
a  woman,  I  feel  I  must  tell  you — now,  to-night 
— that  there  is  something  on  my  heart  I  want 
you  to  know." 

The  moonlight  fell  in  great  splashes  of  soft 
colour  down  upon  the  roadway,  through  the 
elm  boughs,  and  now  a  bit  of  it  touched  her 


60  The  Angel  of  Clay 

clear  white  forehead,  making  it  look  like 
the  purest  marble.  The  thought  of  the  an- 
gel's face  swept  through  Ellerton's  imagina- 
tion and  he  said  to  himself,  "  There!  there 
was  that  look  !  If  I  could  only  fix  that, — 
something  that  that  model  never  has  and 
never  will  have."  The  artist  ever  present  in 
him  was  quickly  set  aside  by  the  seriousness 
of  the  moment. 

"  Well,"  she  went  on,  "  do  you  know  why  " 
—  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  confess  what 
she  had  determined  to — "why,"  she  stam- 
mered, "  I  have  never — married  ?  " 

Ellerton  thought  he  understood. 

' '  Because — because, ' '  he  interrupted,  ' '  you 
already  love  someone  else  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  —  and  dropped  her  head, 
adding,  "  and  that  one  is  —  can  you  not  guess, 
Ellerton?" 

"  I  believe  I  can,"  he  said. 

"  Then  speak  his  name." 

"  His  name,  Mabel,"  looking  straight  at  her, 
"  is  John  At  wood." 

She  started  back  distressed  and  trembling. 

"  No,  no  !  Ellerton,  you  are  utterly  mis- 
taken." 

And  then  her  head  went  down  to  its  old 
place  and  she  looked  steadfastly  at  the  moon- 
light shadows. 

"  Who  under  heaven,"  he  thought,  "  can  it 


Under  the  Moonlight  61 

be,  if  not  Atwood  ?  Surely  not  Perry ! ' '  And 
the  thought  made  him  tremble. 

"  Can  you  think  of  no  one  else  who  has  been 
dear  to  my  life  ?  ' ' 

Lawrence  ransacked  his  brains.  Strange 
how  stupid  men  are  in  these  affairs  of  the 
heart,  which  women  seem  to  understand  from 
instinct ! 

"  Someone,  Ellerton,  whom  I  've  known,  it 
would  seem,  always,  in  some  dim  life  before  I 
began  to  know  this  one.  I  can  think  of  no  life 
where  I  have  not  known  this  one  " — she  hesi- 
tated—" I  love." 

"  Why,  Mabel,  I  can  think  of  no  one  you 
have  always  known,  no  man  here,  but  your 
brother  Tom,  who  was  shot." 

And  then  it  suddenly  flashed  across  his  mind 
— could  it  possibly  be  that  the  girl  meant  him- 
self ?  He  had  never  thought  of  her  in  this 
light.  His  whole  life  and  relation  to  her,  and 
hers  to  him,  flashed  across  him  as  a  picture 
suddenly  thrown  on  a  white  sheet  in  a  dark 
room. 

He  thought  of  his  last  coming  to  the  home, 
and  how  he  had  noticed  her  looking  at  him 
with  a  strange  look  in  her  eyes  which  he  did 
not  understand,  and  how  once  or  twice  after 
she  had  finished  singing  some  love  song,  espe- 
cially the  Scotch  ballad,  Bonnie  Sweet  Bessie, 
she  had  turned  to  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 


62  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  Why,  Mabel," — as  she  was  so  long  silent 
he  began  to  feel  as  if  he  ought  to  break  the 
pause, — "  you  do  not  mean — you  cannot  mean 
—  that  you  love " 

She  did  not  reply;  her  head  was  still  bent 
downwards,  but  he  could  see  the  glistening 
tears  as  they  fell  through  the  moonlight.  He 
took  her  hand,  saying  : 

"  Lift  your  face  and  look  full  into  mine. 
Whatever  this  thing  is  that  disquiets  you,  let 
me  see  if  I  cannot  turn  it  into  a  blessing.  For 
your  life  is  so  dear  to  me.  I  believe  I  compre- 
hend it  all,  and  I  see  the  past  in  a  new  light." 

He  was  now  beginning  to  be  at  a  loss  for 
words.  But  Mabel  gained  control  of  her  voice 
and  said  : 

' '  Ellerton,  I  know  your  life  must  be  among 
men  of  the  world  and  among  women  of  the 
world,  and  that  your  wife  must  be  very  differ- 
ent from  me  —  must  be  a  woman  of  large  ac- 
complishment and  culture,  and  fitted  to  move 
in  all  kinds  of  society  and  to  help  you  make 
your  way.  I  know  all  this,  and  yet  I  feel  that 
it  was  only  right  to  tell  you  all  this,  and  that 
I  owed  it  to  you,  and  I  felt  also  that  such  a  love 
as  I  have  given  you  and  must  give  you  for- 
ever, no  matter  what  my  relations  hereafter 
be  with  other  men  and  women  —  I  have  felt 
that  it  might  be  a  safeguard  through  the  fut- 
ure and  a  help  if  life  bears  upon  you  with  some 


Under  the  Moonlight  63 

unspeakable  renunciation  or  calls  upon  you 
for  some  great  self-sacrifice." 

Ellerton  did  not  reply  for  some  minutes,  and 
thoughts  of  other  women  whom  he  had  met, 
and  who  had  attracted  him  in  a  greater  or 
less  degree,  ran  confusedly  through  his  mind. 
Finally  he  broke  the  silence,  saying  : 

"  L,et  me  think  this  all  over  alone.  Let  me 
go  back  to  my  studio  in  town,  and  to  my  clay, 
— you  know  it  is  there  that  I  work  things  out, 
either  here  in  nature  or  there  with  my  clay, — 
and  when  I  come  again,  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
believe  is  best  for  both  of  us." 

Side  by  side  they  walked  on  down  to  her 
father's  gate  in  silence.  There  he  turned 
hastily  back,  and  she  made  her  way  slowly  up 
the  short  worn  path  to  her  father's  door. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  ANGEL  OP  CI,AY 

"  To  say,  '  What  matters  it  at  the  end  ? 

I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.' 

"Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 

The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 

"Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 

The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

BROWNING. 

ON  the  week  following  the  sitting  at  At- 
wood's  studio,  Julia  Hartmann  knocked 
at  the  studio  door  of  Ellerton  Lawrence.     It 
was  opened  by  Felice,  who  exclaimed  : 
"  Che  bella  signorina  !  " 
She  turned  to  him  smiling,  saying  with  the 
easy  familiarity  of  one  accustomed  to  the  studios 
and  their  various  occupants  : 

"  Take  care,  for  you  know  I  am  half  Italian, 
and  I  understand  more  than  I  can  speak." 
Lawrence  was  at  work  in  the  inner  studio 
64 


The  Angel  of  Clay  65 

upon  a  statue  of  Jefferson,  the  friend  of  Wash- 
ington and  founder  of  Democracy.  He  heard 
steps,  and  turning  from  his  work,  saw  that  it 
was  Miss  Hartmann  who  had  entered.  He 
passed  a  pleasant  greeting  and  she  could  not 
help  but  feel,  with  the  keen  intuition  that  she 
had  from  her  Italian  mother,  that  she  had  made 
a  favourable  impression  on  this  man,  whom 
half  of  the  town  envied  and  the  other  half 
neglected,  because  he  did  not  care  to  conciliate 
them. 

Miss  Hartmann  was  glancing  about  the 
studio  quite  ingenuously.  It  was  her  home  as 
much  as  any  she  had  ever  had,  and  she  could 
not  help,  with  the  blood  of  Italy  in  her  veins, 
feeling  that  in  spite  of  its  disorder  there  was,  in 
the  general  plan  or  scheming,  good  taste  and  a 
sense  of  one  who  had  known  and  seen  the  best 
in  the  world,  and  could  reproduce  the  best  as  far 
as  his  purse  permitted,  and  add  to  it  something 
which  belonged  instinctively  to  his  own  indi- 
viduality. Books  she  knew  little  about,  and 
passed  them  over  hastily,  noting  one  or  two  of 
the  bindings  which  Ellerton  had  brought  from 
Rome,  and  one  or  two  of  the  exquisite  covers 
made  by  the  disciples  of  Morris,  the  man  who 
believed  that  to  work  at  some  trade  with  one's 
hands  was  ennobling.  As  Lawrence  turned  to 
cover  his  statue,  he  noted  that  she  was  dressed 
in  good  taste,  but  with  a  touch  of  brilliancy 


66  The  Angel  of  Clay 

which  he  could  not  help  thinking  would  have 
shocked  his  severe  mother.  But  with  her 
eyes  and  colouring  she  could  carry  almost 
any  amount  of  brilliant  plumage  without  show- 
ing a  touch  of  vulgarity.  Whatever  men  might 
say  of  Julia,  no  one  had  characterised  her  by 
this  term,  except  perhaps  the  jealous  mother 
of  some  society  debutante,  who,  seeing  her  at 
one  of  the  receptions  given  by  the  artistic  fra- 
ternity, surrounded  as  she  was  sure  to  be  by  a 
dozen  admiring  eyes,  did  not  see  what  any  one 
could  admire  in  that  unknown  Miss  Hartmann, 
whose  face  was  so  eagerly  sought  after. 

With  patient  care,  and  with  the  love  of  a 
mother  for  her  own  child,  Lawrence  went  over 
the  colossal  figure,  covering  the  clay  lest  the 
warmth  of  the  studio  should  cause  it  to  dry  so 
that  it  would  not  be  pliable  in  his  hands  on  the 
morrow.  He  chatted  with  Miss  Hartmann 
through  this  process,  asking  her  if  she  had 
ever  tried  her  hand  at  sculpture. 

"  Not  much,"  she  said,  "  yet  I  can  do  a  little 
at  it." 

"  And  are  you  a  musician,  too  ?  "  Lawrence 
asked,  as  he  passed  over  the  head  and  down  the 
right  arm  of  his  great  figure,  which  was  ex- 
tended in  vehement  gesture. 

"  Well,  I  play  two  or  three  instruments  in- 
differently well,"  she  replied,  with  a  little  air 
of  coquetry. 


The  Angel  of  Clay  67 

"  And  do  you  sing,  too,"  he  asked  as  he  went 
on,  "  having  the  land  of  song  in  your  veins  ?  " 
And  as  he  spoke  the  word  veins,  the  picture  of 
the  sleeping  girl  posing  in  Atwood's  studio  for 
the  Greek  Sappho  came  between  him  and  the 
clay  with  such  vividness  that  he  took  hold  of 
the  scaffold  to  make  sure  of  himself.  He  wanted 
to  lead  up  to  the  subject  of  the  angel,  and  this 
woman  posing  for  the  figure.  It  was  a  delicate 
matter  to  ask  one  who  was  not  a  professional 
model,  to  pose,  in  part,  at  least,  for  the  nude 
portions  of  the  figure,  which  Lawrence  felt 
must  be  worked  out  from  life. 

With  the  professional  model,  who  comes  to 
your  studio  and  tells  you  she  has  posed  for  such 
and  such  statues,  and  even  ventures  the  remark 
that  her  arm  is  said  to  be  like  that  of  the  Venus 
dei  Medici,  or  that  her  figure  has  been  used  for 
the  colossal  statue  of  Diana  by  Mr.  Blank,  and 
like  statements,  it  is  easy  enough  to  deal  ;  but 
with  these  people  who  are  as  hard  to  approach 
as  an  Italian  princess,  and  who,  if  they  do  not 
fancy  you  or  the  surroundings,  will  no  more  pose 
for  you  than  they  will  go  without  anything 
they  greatly  desire,  it  is  a  very  difficult  matter. 

"  Miss  Hartmann," — he  stammered  in  spite 
of  himself, — "  I  have  asked  you  to  come  to  my 
studio  this  afternoon" — say  what  he  might, 
he  was  determined  to  be  frank  with  her,  as  he 
endeavoured  to  be  with  everyone — "  because 


68  The  Angel  of  Clay 

I  was  struck  with  the  wonderful  beauty  of 
3'our  figure  as  I  saw  it,  half  draped,  in  the 
studio  of  my  friend  last  week.  I  thought  to 
myself,  and  the  thought  has  been  with  me  since 
it  took  birth,  if  I  could  put  those  lines  into  my 
statue,  the  figure  that  I  may  show  3rou  now 
only  in  a  little  sketch — I  would  do  something 
that  would  give  me  greater  joy  than  I  can  tell 
you,  unless  you  have  felt  the  joy  of  creation  as 
it  triumphs  over  the  labour  and  agony  of  exe- 
cution in  some  satisfactory  result. ' ' 

He  waited  for  her  to  reply,  but  she  was  look- 
ing down  at  the  roses  someone  had  given  her 
and  which  she  was  carrying  in  her  hand,  and 
thinking  how  different  was  this  man  from  the 
one  whom  she  had  just  left  at  the  corner  of  the 
street. 

"  Let  me  see  your  sketch,  Mr.  Lawrence,  if 

I  am  not  troubling  you  too  much." 

He  brought  out  a  little  wax  statuette,  about 
twelve  inches  in  height,  of  an  angel,  with  one 
arm  raised,  standing  in  the  doorway  of  a  tomb 
in  the  Renaissance  style  of  architecture,  the  up- 
lifted arm  pointing  to  the  sky;  and  underneath 
the  figure,  roughly  cut  in  clay,  were  the  words, 

II  He  hath  risen." 

"  You  have  already  suggested  a  form  and 
face  that  are  lovelier  than  my  own  by  far," 
she  said,  with  seeming  honesty,  and  she 
really  meant  what  she  said.  ' '  The  face,  Mr. 


The  Angel  of  Clay  69 

Lawrence,  is  more  beautiful  than  mine  and  more 
holy;  a  child  could  see  this.  My  life  has  not 
been  one  to  make  an  angel  of  the  one  who 
lived  it,  but  you  know  little  about  that." 

She  could  not  help  feeling  in  the  presence 
of  the  man  an  effort  to  appear  better  than  she 
really  was,  or  at  least  as  well  as  she  was  at  her 
very  best.  Lawrence  had  this  unconscious  in- 
fluence on  all. 

Felice  came  in  at  this  moment,  as  a  certain 
Giovanni,  a  marble-cutter,  had  come  direct 
from  his  fat  mother  in  Florence,  and  they 
wished  to  go  out  together  and  talk  over  old 
times  with  a  friend  they  had  in  common,  a 
barber  downtown. 

"  Go  ahead  and  have  a  good  time,  for  I  will 
work  you  hard  when  we  begin  to  cast  this  big 
figure." 

' '  Grazia, "  said  Felice,  bowing  to  Miss  Hart- 
mann  as  he  left  the  studio  for  the  day. 

Alone  with  this  woman,  Ellerton  felt  that 
she  had  cast  a  certain  spell  about  him.  He 
believed  that  it  was  entirely  artistic,  that  the 
whole  nature  of  the  artist  within  him  was 
awake,  and  that  here  was  a  great  opportunity 
to  do  a  splendid  piece  of  work.  She  appreci- 
ated, as  we  have  said,  that  she  had  made  an 
impression  on  this  intellectual  and  cultured 
man,  and  she  could  not  help  feeling  a  certain 
pride  in  her  ability  to  do  so. 


70  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  Mr.  Lawrence,"  she  said,  "  will  you  read 
to  me  from  some  of  your  poets  ?  I  have  heard 
Mr.  Atwood  describe  it  so  enthusiastically." 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  if  you  wish  it." 
And  he  took  down  a  volume  of  Shelley. 

' '  Do  you  want  one  of  my  favourites  or  one 
of  Atwood's?" 

' '  One  of  yours,  please,  first,  and  one  of  his 
afterwards. ' ' 

"  Well,  here  is  Shelley's  Ode  to  the  Skylark." 

Ellerton  was  sitting  opposite  to  her  as  he 
began,  with  the  book  in  his  hand.  Finally  he 
became  more  enthusiastic  as  he  warmed  to  the 
words,  and,  throwing  the  book  down,  rose  to 
his  feet  as  he  made  the  subject  his  own,  and 
interpreted  the  poem  in  a  way  that  was  a  revel- 
ation to  anyone  who  might  have  been  listening. 
This  girl  before  him,  strange  creation  as  she 
was,  half  of  her  life  unreal  and  half  piteously 
realistic,  listened  intently,  and  when  he  fin- 
ished, the  tears  were  flooding  into  her  eyes 
and  dropping  into  her  lap. 

"  Mr.  Lawrence,  it  was  that  verse  especially 
that  touched  me,  which  says  our  sweetest  songs 
are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thoughts.  I  will 
pose  for  your  angel  ;  I  have  a  feeling  that  I 
can  take  the  very  position  you  have  in  your 
sketch." 

Without  waiting  for  his  reply,  she  threw  off 
her  cloak,  and  asking  him  if  he  had  a  costume, 


The  Angel  of  Clay  71 

or  the  drapery  in  the  studio,  she  began  tak- 
ing off  her  gloves,  jacket,  and  hat.  This  was 
done,  as  her  life  was  lived,  by  sheer  impulse. 
The  artistic  feeling  had  taken  possession  of  her, 
and  she  was  in  part  under  the  spell  of  the  time 
and  place  as  he  was  in  a  measure  fascinated  by 
her  beauty.  She  went  to  a  part  of  the  studio 
that  was  screened  off  from  the  rest  for  a  model 
to  unrobe  herself,  and  she  came  out  in  a  few 
moments,  her  long  golden  hair  swinging  down 
her  shoulders,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  with  the 
intensity  of  her  feeling,  and  her  every  fibre 
trembling  with  the  desire  to  embody  the  figure 
of  the  angel  which  she  had  seen  in  the  sketch 
and  had  largely  taken  into  her  own  being. 
She  took  the  very  position,  and  Ellerton  saw 
at  a  glance  that  there  were  many  beauties  in 
the  lines  he  had  not  dreamed  of  in  the  sketch. 
Even  the  face,  which  to  his  practised  eye  had 
lacked  the  repose  or  holiness  which  is  necessary 
to  an  angel's  countenance,  was  chastened  for 
the  moment  by  the  intensity  of  the  girl's  feel- 
ing. 

"  Dear  God,"  Lawrence  thought,  "  if  I  could 
only  fix  that  for  a  moment  !  It  is  too  late,  I 
fear,"  speaking  aloud,  "  for  the  camera,  and 
yet,  Miss  Hartmann,  will  you  let  me  try  a  pho- 
tograph of  you  in  that  position? — for  you  will 
never  be  able  to  strike  it  again  as  you  have  it 
at  this  moment." 


72  The  Angel  of  Clay 

'  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  quick,  and  you  pro- 
mise that  it  shall  never  go  out  of  your  hands  ?  " 

"  I  promise,"  he  said,  hastening  for  his 
camera.  He  took  out  his  watch  to  give  suffi- 
cient time  for  the  light.  She  held  her  pose 
like  a  marble  statue  during  the  process. 

"  It  is  done,"  he  cried  at  last,  "  yet  I  wish 
you  could  stand  on  there  until  I  fix  every  line 
in  my  mind." 

"  I  will  stand  as  long  as  you  wish,"  Julia 
responded,  and  wondered,  when  she  had  said 
it,  at  her  own  weakness.  There  was  a  simplic- 
it}r,  a  frankness,  and  a  purity  about  this  man 
that  had  an  effect  upon  her  very  different  from 
the  men  she  met  in  society  and  in  the  painters' 
studios. 

Ellerton  told  her  once,  when  she  had  asked 
him  in  the  course  of  their  conversation,  that 
her  face  lacked  the  spirituality  of  the  angel's, 
in  spite  of  her  wondrous  beauty. 

"  But  that  is  not  your  fault,"  he  added. 

And  she  thought  : 

"  No,  if  you  knew  my  life,  you  would  indeed 
say  that  it  is  not  my  fault ;  and  yet  I  would  to 
God  I  could  change  it  all,  and  I  believe  that 
if  I  lived  long  near  you  I  might  grow  nearer  to 
the  angel's  face  you  have  in  the  sketch." 

Then  the  feeling  came  across  her  of  the  dif- 
ference in  their  two  states  of  society,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  a  realisation  broke 


The  Angel  of  Clay  73 

in  upon  her  that  there  was  something  in  this 
world  not  to  be  bought  with  beauty  or  money, 
something  infinitely  more  precious,  which  she 
lacked. 

She  turned  over  a  photograph  album  that 
was  lying  on  the  table,  and  stopped  at  one  of 
the  pictures. 

"  There,  that  is  your  angel's  face,"  she  said; 
"  there  are  the  very  eyes,  not  quite  the  beauty 
of  form,  but  the  whole  expression." 

' '  You  have  guessed  right, ' '  he  said  ;  ' '  that 
is  the  face  of  one  of  earth's  best  angels.  She 
has  been  like  a  sister  to  me,  and  her  name  is 
Mabel  Frothingham.  You  may  meet  her  one 
of  these  days." 

Julia  said  nothing,  but  found  her  way  slowly 
to  the  open  piano,  and  sat  down  and  played 
some  airs  that  seemed  to  accord  with  her 
thoughts.  At  this  moment  they  were  sad  and 
pathetic.  It  was  a  dangerous  time  for  her  and 
a  dangerous  time  for  him. 

"  Sing  something,"  he  said  ;  and  she  sang  a 
little  Neapolitan  street  song,  which  she  had 
heard  many  years  ago  in  Italy. 

"  I  was  taught  this  by  my  mother  in  Italy." 

When  she  had  finished  she  turned  from  the 
piano  and  faced  him,  saying  : 

"  Mr.  Lawrence,  I  must  go  now,  for  it  is 
late. "  The  studio  was  beginning  to  grow  dim 
in  the  twilight. 


74  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  Yet  this  is  the  dearest  hour  in  the  studio," 
he  said,  unwilling  to  have  her  go,  and  yet 
understanding  that,  as  she  was  not  to  pose  for 
him  to-day,  she  had  lingered  already  too  long 
for  a  caller. 

"  Miss  Hartmann,  you  are  doing  me  a  favour 
for  which  I  cannot  repay  you,  and  yet  I  feel ' ' 
— he  hesitated — ' '  as  if  I  could  not  ask  you  to 
come  here  without  repaying  you  in  some  way. 
I  know  nothing  about  your  life  ;  will  you  be 
so  good  as  to  tell  me  a  little  sometimes,  and  if 
I  can  help  you  at  all  in  my  rough  way,  I  will 
gladly  do  so." 

"  Agreed,"  she  said  ;  "  but  not  to-night,  for 
I  must  hurry  back  to  my  room,  and  I  can  think 
of  nothing  but  that  angel  face  to-night." 

And  slipping  on  her  wraps  she  went  to  the 
door,  refusing  with  a  decision  he  dared  not 
gainsay  to  have  him  accompany  her,  and  say- 
ing "  Addio"  as  she  held  out  her  hand  in 
passing. 

The  studio  door  closed  behind  her,  and  Law- 
rence was  left  alone  with  his  thoughts  and  his 
creations.  It  was  the  hour  when  he  loved  best 
to  be  alone  in  the  studio.  All  the  hard  lines 
were  softened,  the  statues  seemed  to  live  in  the 
indistinct  shadows  ;  the  workmen  were  gone, 
there  was  nothing  to  disturb  his  fancy  and  the 
quiet.  Would  it  be  worth  the  giving  of  a  man's 
life  to  the  making  of  a  true  angel  out  of  that 


The  Angel  of  Clay  75 

angel  of  clay  ?  And  would  it  be  possible  ? 
Poor  fellow !  with  all  his  travelling  about  the 
world,  his  heart  was  still  that  of  an  ingenuous 
schoolboy. 

Up  and  down  Lawrence  walked,  past  the 
supper  hour,  late  into  the  evening,  until  the 
studio  grew  so  dark  that  he  could  see  each 
star  shining  down  through  his  north-light 
window,  his  imagination  filled  with  thoughts 
too  sacred,  too  much  his  own,  to  be  written. 


CHAPTER   X 

ATWOOD   AND   MABEL 

"The  World  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  ; 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  we  are  out  of  tune." 

WORDSWORTH. 

ON  one  of  his  visits  to  his  mother's  home, 
Lawrence  had  taken  with  him  his  friend 
Atwood,  and  the  day  after  their  arrival  Mrs. 
Lawrence  had  invited  the  rector  and  Mabel 
to  dinner. 

It  was  that  season  of  late  May  when  the 
foliage  is  in  its  first  bloom,  and  ifature  stood 
as  a  young  girl  on  the  threshold  of  woman- 
hood, in  the  old  garden  with  the  overhanging 
elms,  and  underfoot  were  lilies  of  the  valley 
and  a  few  late  violets  to  sweeten  the  air  and  to 
remind  one,  in  the  blaze  of  the  flaunting  lilacs, 
which  take  the  senses  by  storm,  that  modesty 
is  a  lovely  virtue. 

Atwood  strolled  into  the  garden  with  Miss 
Frothingham.  They  passed  through  the  con- 
servatory with  its  wide-open  windows,  and  the 
76 


Atwood  and  Mabel  77 

flowers  and  orchids  on  the  plants  standing 
about,  reaching  out  as  if  they  wished  to  join 
their  hardier  kin  in  the  softness  of  the  May. 
They  went  out  through  the  open  doors,  passed 
the  great  lilac  bushes  and  into  the  narrow  paths 
bounded  on  both  sides  with  the  fragrant  box  ; 
then  down  towards  the  meadows  in  the  rear  of 
the  garden  where  the  fireflies  were  tempting 
one  to  pursue  them  into  the  lowland.  Every- 
thing was  peaceful. 

Lawrence  was  sitting  on  the  lawn,  chatting 
with  his  dear  friend,  the  rector.  He  little 
dreamed  that  soon  even  this  restful  place  would 
be  filled  with  strange  unquiet.  Atwood  and 
his  companion  strolled  along,  admiring  the 
beauty  of  the  old  place,  which  Atwood  wished 
to  think  ran  back  indefinitely  until  it  was  lost 
in  the  darkness,  and  their  conversation  turned 
naturally  to  their  mutual  friend. 

"  Mr.  Atwood,"  Mabel  said,  "  I  fear  Eller- 
ton  is  working  too  hard.  I  wish  you  would 
guard  him  more  carefully  when  he  goes  back 
to  the  noisy  city,  with  its  swift  and  hard  life. 
Do  you  know,  I  dread  these  great  cities.  They 
seem  like  factories  where  men  and  women  wear 
their  lives  out  in  the  hum  of  bewildering  ma- 
chinery. Every  day  of  my  life,  I  thank  the 
loving  God  that  he  has  permitted  me  to  live  in 
this  sweet  old  town." 

"And  I  believe,"  Atwood  here  interposed, 


78  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  that  the  sweet  old  town  and  its  kindly  folk 
must  daily  thank  the  wise  Creator  that  he  has 
placed  here  such  an  angel  of  blessedness  as 
yourself." 

The  compliment,  sincere  and  honestly  given, 
Mabel  heard,  but  her  thoughts  were  fixed  in- 
tently on  Ellerton  to-night.  She  knew  she 
was  disturbed  about  him  at  times,  and  she  was 
forced  to  confess  against  her  reason  that  her 
heart  was  going  out  more  and  more  to  his 
home-coming,  and  the  old  place  she  loved  for  a 
thousand  associations  seemed  to  have  some- 
thing incomplete  when  he  left  it  for  the  city,  or 
if  he  did  not  come  to  the  rectory  for  a  week  or 
more. 

When  the  mood  was  on  him,  he  worked  with 
scarcely  any  rest  ;  in  fact,  he  scarcely  ate  or 
slept.  This  she  had  heard  from  his  mother, 
and  this,  too,  gave  her  cause  for  worriment. 
She  remembered,  when  he  was  away  in  Europe 
on  his  first  vacation  after  he  graduated  from 
the  high  school,  and  the  physician  advised 
travel  to  an  overworked  brain — she  remembered 
how  his  father  had  been  brought  home  from 
the  city,  where  he  had  fallen  at  his  desk,  and 
had  lived  only  to  hold  his  wife  close  to  him  and 
to  speak  of  his  boy  Ellerton,  and  his  desire  to 
see  him  once  more.  She  was  in  the  house  at 
the  time,  and  she  remembered  his  calling  her, 
and  that  Ellerton' s  name  was  the  last  on  his 


A  t 'wood  and  Mabel  79 

lips.  She  had  heard  from  the  mother  of  the 
tense,  overstrung  nature  of  the  Lawrences, 
that  would  rise  to  supreme  heights,  then  drop 
as  a  bird  with  a  broken  wing  the  minute  the 
nervous  tension  was  relaxed.  It  was  strange 
how  these  things  passed  through  her  mind  to- 
night :  perhaps  it  was  Ellerton's  pale  look  that 
suggested  them  ;  perhaps  it  was  a  premonition 
of  some  unforeseen  ill,  which  a  woman's  heart 
apprehends  and  anticipates,  when  the  keenest 
masculine  intellect  will  not  be  moved. 

"  Yes,  I  fear  that  Lawrence  is  wrorking  a  bit 
too  hard,  Miss  Frothingham,  but  I  can  do 
nothing  with  the  fellow  when  he  gets  these 
moods  upon  him.  He  goes  to  work  at  day- 
light, and  will  scarcely  stop  for  a  cup  of  coffee. 
It  is  only  Felice  who  dares  to  interrupt  him, 
and  he  knows  him  so  well,  knows  his  weak- 
nesses and  his  strength,  that  he  will  say  to  him 
things  that  his  best  friend  would  not  venture. 
But  there  is  one  thing  with  which  you  may 
comfort  yourself,  for  you,  he  has  told  me,  are 
like  a  sister  to  him.  He  remembers  faintly  his 
sister,  and  he  has  often  said  to  me  that,  had 
she  lived,  she  would  be  as  you  are  to-day.  I 
cannot  tell  you  all  the  sweet  things  he  has  re- 
peated to  me  in  your  praise." 

Mabel  dropped  her  head  a  little  lower  as  At- 
wood  spoke  of  Lawrence's  appreciation  of  her, 
and  anyone  who  could  have  looked  up  into  her 


So  The  Angel  of  Clay 

large  brown  eyes  would  have  seen  there  a  look 
of  gentle  sadness,  of  some  heart's  desire  as  yet 
unsatisfied.  She  replied,  however,  perhaps  to 
cover  a  slight  embarrassment,  if  there  was 
enough  of  the  society  woman  about  her  to  at- 
tempt at  all  to  cover  anything  : 

"  Mr.  Atwood,  you  must  not  believe  all  the 
good  things  Ellerton  says  of  me.  I  am  no 
better,  or  worse,  I  pray  God,  than  womankind 
about  me.  I  have  many  faults,  but  my  friends 
do  not  find  them  out  —  that  is  all." 

Atwood  went  on  with  his  recollection  of  Law- 
rence's descriptions  of  the  girl,  not  heeding  her 
gentle  rebuke. 

"  He  says,  Miss  Frothingham,  that  you  are 
the  embodiment  of  L,owell's  Irene,  and  if  that 
is  so,  and  I  am  sure  I  dare  not  gainsay  it,  you 
have  reason  to  be  supremely  happy,  for  your 
life,  which  has  scarcely  passed  a  score  of  years, 
has  been  of  great  service.  You  remember  the 
poem,  do  you  not  ?  " 

She  made  no  reply,  and  he  began  to  recite 
the  lines  in  a  low,  clear  voice,  without  any  at- 
tempt at  elocution : 

"  Hers  is  a  spirit  deep  and  crystal  clear  ; 

Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 
Free  without  boldness,  meek  without  fear, 

Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympathies  ; 

Far  down  into  her  large  and  patient  eyes,        . 
I  gaze,  deep  drinking  of  the  infinite, 


Atwood  and  Mabel  8 1 

As,  in  the  mid-watch  of  a  clear,  still  night, 
I  look  into  the  fathomless  blue  skies. 


"  Like  a  lone  star  through  riven  storm-clouds  seen 
By  sailors,  tempest-tost  upon  the  sea, 

Telling  of  rest  and  peaceful  havens  nigh, 
Unto  my  soul  her  star-like  soul  hath  been, 
Her  sight  as  full  of  hope  and  calm  to  me  ; — 

For  she  unto  herself  hath  builded  high 
A  home  serene,  wherein  to  lay  her  head, 
Earth's  noblest  thing,  a  Woman  perfected." 

When  he  had  finished  she  looked  up,  and 
through  the  moonlight,  which  was  falling  in 
large  flakes  and  masses  about  them  through 
the  swaying  elm  boughs,  he  could  see  that 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Would  that  my  life  were  worthy,"  she 
said,  earnestly,"  to  embody  those  noble  lines  "; 
"and  would  to  God,"  she  repeated  in  her 
heart,  "  I  could  be  all  that  those  lines  mean  to 
Ellerton." 

The  moon  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  still 
they  strolled  about  the  garden,  talking  mostly 
about  their  friend  now,  and  again  about  art, 
and  now  of  a  theme  dear  to  both  of  them — 
music.  He  loved  his  violin,  and  he  played  as 
naturally  as  if  he  had  grown  up  with  the  violin 
and  had  not  devoted  so  much  time  to  painting. 
And  yet  with  his  brush  he  had  already  won 
more  success  than  the  average  man. 

6 


82  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  You  will  play  something  for  us  to-night, 
will  you  not,  Mr.  Atwood  ?  "  Mabel  said. 

"  Yes,  I  will  play  after  you  have  sung  the 
Scotch  ballads  which  I  hear  Ellerton  humming 
to  himself  as  he  works  at  his  clay.  Oh,  he 
tells  me  he  has  heard  great  singers,  but  he 
would  not  give  one  of  your  old  ballads,  sung 
in  the  library  of  his  mother's  house,  where  he 
can  sit  and  look  out  across  the  meadows  to 
the  distant  hills, — he  would  not  give  one  of 
those  old  ballads  in  those  surroundings  for  all 
the  sweetest  songs  of  the  greatest  opera  singers 
in  lya  Scala." 

Her  heart  beat  quicker  as  she  heard  Eller- 
ton's  praise  ;  covering  her  emotion,  however, 
she  said  : 

"  You  will  be  much  disappointed  when  you 
hear  me,  and  I  really  must  find  fault  with 
Ellerton  if  he  insists  on  flattering  me  so  to  his 
friends." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   POWER  OP  SONG 

"  Adieu !     Adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hillside  ;  and  now  't  is  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley  glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision  or  a  waking  dream  ? 
Fled  is  the  music, — do  I  wake  or  sleep? " 

KEATS. 

SO  they  went  on  chatting  about  their  favour- 
ites and  the  great  composers  and  song- 
writers ;  and  while  they  were  talking  in  the 
garden,  Ellerton  sat  indoors  close  to  his  mother, 
the  rector,  whose  head  had  dropped  low  in  the 
chair  while  he  smoked  his  cigar,  being  fast 
asleep. 

"  Ellerton,  my  son,"  the  mother  said  in  her 

stately  way,  "  you  are  now  twenty-eight,  the 

age  when  your  father  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 

'  Yes,  mother,  and  you  mean  me  to  infer 

that  it  is  time  that  I  asked  some  sweet  maiden 

of  eighteen  or  twenty  summers  to  be  my  wife 

and  to  come  home  here   and   reign  as  queen 

in  your  stead  ?     No,    no,    mother  ;   art  is  a 

83 


84  The  Angel  of  Clay 

jealous  goddess,  and  a  man  cannot  serve  two 
masters. ' ' 

' '  Ah,  yes,  my  boy,  but  art  does  not  fill  the 
heart,  and  a  noble  woman  can  help  you  to 
serve  one  master." 

"  Mother,  I  know  you  have  someone  in  your 
fancy,  whom  you  have  chosen  to  follow  you  as 
mistress  of  this  old  place.  You  came  here 
while  father's  mother  was  still  alive,  and  she 
had  come  while  father's  grandmother  was  mis- 
tress of  the  place,  and  so  on  back  till  that  stern 
old  Puritan  Lawrence  first  cut  the  great  pine- 
trees  off  this  lawn  and  helped  to  build  the  log 
hut  that  was  to  house  the  dainty  wife  who  had 
been  used  to  so  much  luxury  in  old  England. 
Poor  little  mistress  !  There  's  that  portrait  of 
her  in  the  library — no  wonder  she  scarcely  out- 
lived the  first  winter  amid  such  hardships. 
They  were  heroes,  indeed,  those  men,  and  our 
lives  seem  trivial  at  times  in  comparison  with 
theirs.  Mother,  tell  me,  if  you  will,  the  woman 
you  would  choose  to  live  with  you — I  will  not 
say  follow  you — in  this  house. ' ' 

And  the  mother  went  on  to  describe  the 
character  which  anyone  but  Ellerton  would 
have  very  soon  seen  to  tally  with  the  minister's 
daughter,  who  was  still  walking  about  under 
the  great  trees  with  Atwood.  Nearer  and 
nearer  the  mother  came  to  the  portrait,  but  yet 
Ellerton  did  iiot  recognise  the  prototype.  He 


The  Power  of  Song  85 

could  think  only  of  a  voice  he  had  heard  once 
in  the  Latin  Quarter  of  Paris.  A  number  of 
American  students  were  assembled  together  at 
some  restaurant  on  an  American  national  holi- 
day, which  they  were  celebrating  in  the  Paris- 
ian capital.  Suddenly  there  was  a  pause,  and 
the  noisy  clamour  of  voices  was  stopped,  and 
the  notes  of  a  low  contralto  voice  fell  upon  his 
ears.  He  had  heard  nothing  like  it  but  once, 
and  that  was  a  bird  singing  in  the  early  morn- 
ing in  the  garden  of  an  old  palace  in  Siena, 
where  he  had  passed  the  summer.  He  knew 
Keats's  description  of  the  nightingale.  But 
the  music  that  that  bird  made  as  the  day  crept 
softly  over  the  ruined  walls,  and  stole  along 
the  silver  olive-trees — that  music  was  compar- 
able to  nothing  except  that  voice,  sweet  beyond 
any  earthly  sound,  holy  with  the  holiness  of 
pure  beauty  not  to  be  expressed  in  words. 
There  were  qualities  in  it  as  of  a  cascade  run- 
ning through  the  woodlands.  There  was  a  softer 
and  a  mellower  quality,  as  of  a  fountain  playing 
on  worn  marble  basins  and  falling  away  into 
soft,  green,  mossy  places.  It  was  as  a  west 
wind  whispering  through  the  pine  branches. 
It  was  the  whole  melody  of  nature  gathered  up 
into  one  tiny  feathered  thing,  and  given  out  as 
if  the  one  impulse  of  life  were  to  sing  and  sing 
until  the  heart  went  out  in  that  blessed  giving. 
And  now  he  heard  those  songs  again,  and  one 


86  The  Angel  of  Clay 

thing  added  to  it — the  pathos  of  the  human 
heart,  which  must  always  add  something  to 
the  sweetest  bird  and  the  sweetest  instrument 
that  the  hand  of  man  can  frame.  He  seemed 
to  be  in  a  flood  of  song,  with  melodies  pouring 
all  about  him,  as  if  it  might  drown  him  with 
the  sweetness  ;  and  he  made  no  resistance,  and 
for  the  first  time  he  fully  understood  what 
Keats  had  in  his  heart  when  he  wrote  those 
lines.  He  remembered,  when  the  song  was 
done,  someone  asked  if  he  cared  to  meet  the 
singer,  and  he  went  forward  to  find  a  frail,  dark 
girl,  with  eyes  deeply  set  that  seemed  to  look 
out  of  an  experience  that  had  been  sad  rather 
than  joyful. 

As  he  looked  in  her  eyes  a  feeling  passed 
over  him,  and  a  voice  whispered  within, 
"  Your  life  is  to  gather  from  this  singing  the 
rich  inspiration  that  makes  great  art  and  great 
manhood  possible."  He  was  to  learn  in  after 
days  that  inspiration  and  achievement  were  to 
come  not  from  acquirement  so  much  as  from 
renunciation. 


This  scene  passed  through  his  mind  as  his 
mother  painted  her  word-picture,  which  to  her 
was  a  portrait  of  Mabel  Frothingham,  but  which 
to  him  was  the  picture  of  that  sweet  singer. 

The  mother,  seeing  the  eyes  looking  away 


The  Power  of  Song  87 

into  space  as  they  were  wont  to  do  in  his  day- 
dreaming, a  little  piqued,  said  : 

"  Ellerton,  do  you  not  recognise  my  word- 
picture  ?  Have  you  never  seen  one  who  an- 
swered this  description?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  have  heard  and  seen  one, 
but  I  am  wondering  where  you  have  heard 
and  seen  her." 

' '  Ellerton,  do  you  remember  a  poem  of  our 
own  Longfellow,  which  says: 

'That  is  great  which  lieth  near  us. 
Choose  from  this  thy  work  of  art,  that  is  best.'  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  and  to-night  there  is  nothing 
that  lies  so  close  to  my  heart  as  a  song  I  heard 
one  night  when  I  was  a  student  in  the  Latin 
Quarter  in  Paris,  which  uplifted  my  life  for  ever 
after,  and  which  kept  me  from  degrading  myself 
by  entering  into  all  the  dissipations  which  the 
American  student  considers  a  part  of  his  art 
education  in  Paris.  It  was  a  Sunday  night, 
six  years  ago  this  very  night.  The  week  had 
been  one  of  sore  discouragement  to  me.  I  was 
working  on  my  statue  of  the  poet,  and  you 
know  of  the  discouragements  and  accidents 
which  happen  to  one  working  on  a  colossal 
statue  of  this  kind,  for  you  have  worked  them 
out  with  me,  dear  mother.  Half  of  the  great 
statue  had  fallen  down  in  the  night,  and  when 
I  went  to  the  studio  on  Sunday  morning,  to 


88  The  Angel  of  Clay 

wet  my  clay,  I  found  several  tons  of  wet  clay 
on  the  floor,  and  but  half  of  my  statue  sus- 
pended in  the  air.  You  can  realise,  mother, 
what  it  meant  to  me.  It  must  be  like  a  mother 
looking  upon  her  first-born,  dead  before  her. 
The  labour  of  conception,  the  painful  and  slow 
growth,  the  tardy  execution,  the  accommo- 
dating of  one's  self  to  assistants  who  do  not 
understand,  or  make  light  of,  your  highest  en- 
deavour ;  in  fact,  all  that  the  birth,  growth, 
and  development  of  a  child  mean  to  its  mother, 
— all  this  the  statue  means  to  the  sculptor  who 
creates  it.  So  I  had  gone  with  a  heavy  heart 
to  the  American  Association,  hearing  that 
there  was  to  be  some  meeting  of  the  students, 
and  possibly  some  singing  of  the  old  songs 
dear  to  us  at  home.  At  that  gathering  I  heard 
the  voice  that  I  seem  to  hear  as  I  am  speaking 
to  you  now — seem  almost  to  see,  sight  and 
hearing  run  at  times  so  closely  together.  Per- 
haps it  is  the  dreamy  beauty  of  the  lawn,  where 
the  moonlight  falling  through  these  elms  brings 
all  my  senses  into  harmony.  Did  you  ever 
have  that  feeling,  mother,  that  )rou  can  reach 
out  and  grasp  a  voice  —  or  are  sculptors,  only, 
haunted  by  these  curious  confusions  of  the 
senses  ?  Not  one  note  had  been  sung  before 
my  heart's  pain  seemed  to  fall  away  slowly 
from  me,  and  to  merge  its  grief  in  the  accepted 
sorrow  of  all  humanity,  the  sorrow  of  mankind, 


The  Power  of  Song  89 

which  I  felt  it  was  a  privilege  to  share.  I  have 
since  learnt  the  song.  It  was  written  by  the 
author  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  and  it  is  worthy 
of  her.  You  remember  the  words  : 

'  Still,  still  with  thee,  when  purple  morning  breaketh, 

When  the  bird  waketh  and  the  shadows  flee  ; 
Fairer  than  morning,  lovelier  than  the  daylight, 
Dawns  the  sweet  consciousness,  I  am  with  thee. 

'  Alone  with  thee,  amid  the  mystic  shadows, 
The  solemn  gush  of  nature  newly  born  ; 
Alone  with  thee  in  breathless  adoration, 
In  the  calm  dew  and  freshness  of  the  morn. 

'  As  in  the  dawning,  o'er  the  waveless  ocean, 
The  image  of  the  morning  star  doth  rest, 
So  in  this  stillness,  thou  beholdest  only, 
Thine  image  in  the  waters  of  my  breast. 

'  When  sinks  the  soul,  subdued  by  toil,  to  slumber, 

Its  closing  eye  looks  up  to  thee  in  prayer  ; 
Sweet  the  repose  beneath  thy  wings  o'ershading, 
But  sweeter  still  to  wake  and  find  thee  there.'  " 

"  My  son,"  the  mother  said,  when  it  was 
finished,  "  that  is  a  favourite  hymn  of  mine, 
and  was  a  favourite  of  your  father's.  The 
thoughts  that  were  running  through  my  mind 
were  of  the  sweet  singer  who  lives  much  nearer 
home  than  this  nightingale  you  heard  in 
Europe." 

The  mother  was  about  to  tell  her  heart's 


go  The  Angel  of  Clay 

secret  to  her  son,  when  the  very  subject  of  her 
thoughts,  turning  suddenly  around  the  lilac 
bushes,  appeared  before  them  with  At  wood, 
whose  face  seemed,  in  the  slanting  moonlight, 
radiant  with  love. 

Strange  drama  of  human  existence  ! 


CHAPTER  XII 


DANGEROUS  SAILING 

".    .    .    Here  in  her  hairs 
The  painter  plays  the  spider  ;  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men, 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs  ;  but  her  eyes, — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?    Having  made  one, 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 
And  leave  itself  unfurnished." 

SHAKESPEARE'S  Sonnets. 

JULIA  HARTMANN  was  as  good  as  her 
promise,   and   the  second  day  after  she 
quitted  Ellerton's  studio  she  came  back  ready 
to  pose  for  his  angel. 

It  would  seem  curious,  to  the  uninitiated,  to 
think  of  an  artist  making  an  angel  from  a 
woman  of  the  world,  or,  one  might  almost  say, 
a  woman  of  a  lower  stratum  of  society  than 
this  implies.  But  the  artist  chooses  the  parts 
of  the  figure  necessary  to  his  perfect  statue 
wherever  he  can  find  them,  and  often  the  milk- 
maid or  fishwife  has  the  physical  make-up  of  a 
Juno,  and  all  that  is  needed  is  a  head — intellig- 
ence and  spirituality — put  upon  her  splendid 
91 


92  The  Angel  of  Clay 

neck  and  frame  to  make  the  entire  goddess. 
But  if  the  artist  has  not  clearly  defined  in  his 
imagination  the  figure  he  wishes  to  bring  out 
of  the  dull  clay,  he  had  better  let  art  alone. 
As  Lanier  says  :  "  Let  any  sculptor  hew  us 
out  the  most  ravishing  combination  of  tender 
curves  and  spheric  softness  that  ever  stood  for 
woman  ;  yet,  if  the  lips  have  a  certain  fulness 
that  hints  of  the  flesh,  if  the  brow  be  insincere, 
if  in  the  minutest  particular  the  physical  beauty 
suggests  a  moral  ugliness,  that  sculptor,  unless 
he  be  portraying  a  moral  ugliness  for  a  moral 
purpose,  may  as  well  give  over  his  marble  for 
paving-stones.  Time,  whose  judgments  are 
inexorably  moral,  will  not  accept  his  work." 
It  is  absurd  to  believe  that  out  of  a  disordered 
imagination  a  man  can  bring  a  thing  of  perfect 
beauty. 

But  to  return  to  Ellerton's  studio.  Lawrence 
himself  opened  the  door  for  Julia,  Felice  having 
gone  out  on  an  errand  to  a  neighbouring  city. 
Miss  Hartmaun  spoke  but  little  on  this  after- 
noon ;  she  took  the  costume,  draped  herself 
behind  the  screen,  came  out,  took  the  pose,  and 
held  it  like  a  block  of  marble,  while  Lawrence 
worked  with  all  the  intensity  of  one  who  has  a 
distinct  idea  and  is  trying  to  bring  it  from  some 
stubborn  material  and  give  it  to  the  world  in 
terms  of  beauty  and  form. 

She  scarcely  spoke,  but  seemed  abstracted  ; 


Dangerous  Sailing  93 

and  lie  learned  afterwards  that  she  had  these 
fits  of  sad  abstraction,  in  which  she  looked  as 
if  she  might  do  anything  desperate.  The 
afternoon  wore  on,  and  she  had  posed  for  an 
hour  and  a  half  with  scarcely  any  rest,  when 
it  suddenly  came  to  Lawrence  that  she  must 
rest,  and  he  said  : 

"  What  a  brute  I  am  !  That  is  all  the  posing 
you  must  do  to-day." 

She  stopped,  stepped  down  off  the  stand 
where  she  had  taken  her  attitude,  and  dropped 
into  a  soft-cushioned  chair,  closing  her  eyes, 
saying  : 

"  I  did  not  know  I  was  so  tired." 

"  You  seem  depressed,  Miss  Hartmann,"  he 
said. 

"  You  do  not  know  me  yet,  Mr.  Lawrence," 
she  replied,  "  or  my  moods.  Mother  used  to 
say  that  father  had  these  strange  fits  of  depres- 
sion, and  when  they  come  over  me  I  feel  I 
could  do  almost  anything.  Anything  to  stop 
that  nameless  ache,  which,  if  I  could  but  name 
it,  might  be  relieved." 

"  You  do  not  need  to  name  it  to  me,  Miss 
Hartmann,  for  I  am  a  creature  of  the  same 
birthright  as  your  father." 

Her  sadness  led  him  naturally  to  say  some 
words  of  comfort  and  consolation,  and  he  took 
from  his  table  a  bunch  of  violets  and  handed 
them  to  her,  saying  : 


94  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  Perhaps  these  little  flowers  may  be  of  some 
solace  to  you.  They  are  the  flowers  that  an 
angel  would  wear  if  she  chose  any  of  this 
earth." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  replied,  very  meekly, 
and  dropped  her  eyes. 

Soon  the  weariness  began  to  wear  off,  and 
she  began  to  talk  more  freely,  and  in  another 
half-hour  she  had  told  him  much  of  her  his- 
tory,— of  what  she  loved,  and  what  she  hated  ; 
but  she  seemed  from  the  first  to  have  no  hope 
for  the  future,  and  no  faith  except  a  dim  be- 
lief that  the  burning  of  a  candle  on  a  fete-day 
helped  to  clear  the  moral  atmosphere. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  anything,  Mr.  Law- 
rence ?  ' '  she  asked. 

"  Do  I  believe  in  anything  !  "  he  repeated. 
"  If  I  did  not  believe  in  the  existence  of  a 
divine  justice,  working  out  the  good  of  this 
world  in  the  right  way,  I  would  not  live  another 
hour  in  it,  in  spite  of  all  the  art  and  the  sweet 
associations  one  meets  with  here.  I  mean  by 
that,  Miss  Hartmann,  that  without  faith  I 
could  not  live.  I  can  remember  but  one  pe- 
riod of  my  life  when  the  divine  relationship 
was  broken  up  and  clouded,  and  that,  to  me, 
was  a  period  of  blank  despair. ' ' 

There  was  something  about  this  clear  faith 
that  seemed  to  inspire  her,  for  of  the  many 
men  she  had  known,  whatever  faith  they  had, 


Dangerous  Sailing  95 

few  spoke  of  it  to  her.  They  spoke  of  her 
beauty,  and  her  charms,  and  invited  her  to  go 
to  the  theatre  with  them,  and  to  have  all  sorts 
of  good  times,  but  when  she  awoke  the  next 
morning  after  the  gaiety,  it  was  with  a  sense 
of  unsatisfied  longing  for  a  something  —  she 
knew  not  what. 

She  began  to  tie  to  something  in  Ellerton, — 
this  sense  of  faith  which  seemed  so  clear  ;  and 
he  extended  what  strength  he  had  with  the 
utmost  freedom  and  with  the  naivete  of  his 
almost  childlike  nature.  It  never  occurred  to 
him  that  any  woman  whom  he  might  help  was 
likely  to  care  for  him  so  much  that  the  agony 
he  could  not  relieve  might  be  greater  than  the 
darkness  he  was  able  to  clear  up  with  his  strong 
faith. 


Julia  came  again  in  the  same  week,  and  again 
in  the  following  week,  and  then  she  would  drop 
in  every  two  or  three  days.  If  she  was  too  late 
or  too  weary  to  pose,  she  would  sit  through  the 
twilight,  while  he  smoked  a  cigarette  and  talked 
to  her  of  what  he  had  done.  She  would  sit  at 
the  piano  and  sing  whatever  songs  her  mood 
suggested  ;  strangely  enough,  they  were  mostly 
sad.  He  looked  forward  to  her  cqming,  and 
whenever  he  needed  her  she  was  always  ready 
to  pose  for  the  arm  or  shoulder,  or  for  her 


96  The  Angel  of  Clay 

bust,  and  to  change  her  hair  to  suit  any  por- 
trait or  ideal  head  he  might  be  working  over. 
She  did  not  worry  him  with  questions  about 
his  life,  as  women  often  did  in  his  own  set  ; 
she  did  not  annoy  him  with  questions  about 
his  art.  And  he  rested  in  her  great  beauty,  as 
one  rests  on  a  soft  June  da}7,  or  a  midsummer's 
night,  which  does  not  tax  the  intelligence,  and 
seems,  as  Shelley  has  said  of  music,  "  to  stifle 
the  serpent  that  care  has  bound  about  the 
heart  to  stifle  it."  He  took  the  same  pleasure 
in  her  that  he  did  in  one  of  the  old  headless 
Greek  statues.  There  was  a  torso  he  remem- 
bered, in  the  Naples  Museum,  of  a  Venus 
without  a  head,  which  gave  him  a  sense  of 
great  pleasure.  The  forms  were  so  lovely  and 
perfectly  rendered. 

Lawrence  believed  he  liked  Julia  best  when 
she  said  nothing,  for  there  were  tones  in  her 
voice  which  he  found  jarred  upon  something 
in  his  nature. 


"  Miss  Hartmann " 

"  I  asked  you  to  call  me  Julia,  and  not  Miss 
Hartmann.  I  generally  have  my  own  way — 
the  artists  will  tell  you  so." 

"  Well,  Julia,  if  you  will  have  it,"  he  said 
to  her  one  day,  ' '  I  want  you  to  give  me  your 
whole  day  to-morrow,  for  I  must  leave  town 


Dangerous  Sailing  97 

the  day  after  to-morrow.  My  mother  is  not 
well,  and  I  do  not  dare  leave  that  angel  in  the 
clay.  I  mean  to  finish  it  to-morrow,  and  to 
let  Felice  cast  it  in  plaster  while  I  am  away 
with  my  mother." 

Julia  added,  naively  : 

"  And  with  your  adopted  sister,  Mabel," 
with  an  emphasis  on  sister. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  the  last  remark,  but 
went  on  to  tell  her  to  go  to  bed  early  and  get 
thoroughly  rested,  for  it  would  be  a  hard  day's 
work.  She  went  away,  promising  to  come 
early  in  the  morning  and  do  as  he  wished. 
He  was  absorbed  in  thinking  of  the  figure,  and 
merely  saw  her  to  the  door,  leaving  it  open  as 
she  went  down  the  stairs.  He  threw  himself 
on  a  rough  sofa,  covered  with  skins,  his  head 
upon  a  box,  tired  out,  his  cheeks  burning 
brightly,  and  his  nervous  nature  wrought  up 
to  an  .unnatural  tension  over  this  figure  which 
he  wished  so  earnestly  to  complete. 

Julia  had  forgotten  her  bonnet-pin.  She 
came  in  noiselessly,  and  as  he  was  tapping  the 
woodwork  of  the  board  sofa  with  his  hand,  he 
did  not  hear  her  footfall.  She  stood  and  looked 
at  him,  and  her  eyes  grew  soft,  and  there  was 
a  movement  under  her  bodice  as  if  the  breath- 
ing was  coming  quickly  as  with  some  pent-up 
emotion.  Suddenly  she  came  forward,  and, 
bending  over  back  of  him,  passed  her  hand. 


98  The  Angel  of  Clay 

softly  over  his  forehead.  Yet  Lawrence  was 
not  at  all  startled. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  you  had 
gone" — for,  in  comparison  with  the  figure  of 
the  angel,  she  seemed  but  a  child  to  him  to- 
night. 

"  I  came  back  for  my  bonnet-pin,  but  you 
looked  so  tired,  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse 
to  pass  my  hand  over  your  brow.  My  hand 
was  cold,  and  it  might  refresh  you,  I  thought." 

He  put  his  hand  out  and  took  hers,  saying  : 

"  Sit  down,  my  child,  for  I  want  to  tell  you 
how  fond  I  am  of  you.  You  have  come  and 
gone  in  and  out  of  this  studio  many  days  as  we 
worked  over  this  figure.  You  have  posed  with 
such  steady  patience.  God  has  given  you  a 
great  gift,  Julia,  in  that  wonderful  physique. 
There  is  something  in  you  of  the  Sibyls  of 
Michelangelo.  Your  shoulders  are  magnifi- 
cent, and  your  head  is  poised  like  the  Winged 
Victory.  Men  speak  of  genius,  and  they  do 
not  mention  beauty,  which  is  God's  greatest 
gift.  I  have  often  wished  I  might  be  some- 
thing to  your  life  or  do  something  in  some 
way  "  —  he  hesitated  ;  he  did  not  wish  her  to 
think  that  there  was  the  least  condescension  in 
his  manner  or  tone  —  "  to  cheer  it." 

It  was  dark  in  the  studio.  She  was  bending 
towards  him,  and  what  more  natural,  as  he  said 
this,  than  that  his  arm  should  drop  around  her 


Dangerous  Sailing  99 

neck  and  he  should  draw  her  gently  to  him. 
She  looked  up  with  all  her  feeling  surging 
through  her  body.  He  met  it  with  a  quiet 
look,  as  much  as  to  say,  You  are  my  child  to- 
night. And  he  kissed  her  on  her  brow,  and 
bade  her  go. 

She  rose  slowly,  without  being  offended  in 
the  least,  and  said  : 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Lawrence." 

She  had  never  called  him  by  the  familiar 
names  that  she  had  used  with  other  artists, 
even  with  Atwood. 

"  Good-night,  my  child,"  he  responded  ; 
"  and  mind  you  sleep  well,  for  to-morrow  we 
must  work." 

He  went  back  to  his  board  sofa  and  the 
skins,  and  wrapping  himself  about  with  one 
of  them  fell  asleep  in  his  workshop. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  LIFE  FOR  A  SOUL 

"Turn,  turn,  my  wheel !    What  is  begun 
At  daybreak  must  at  dark  be  done. 
To-morrow  will  be  another  day ; 
To-morrow  the  hot  furnace  flame 
Will  search  the  heart  and  try  the  frame, 
And  stamp  with  honour  or  with  shame 
These  vessels  made  of  clay." 

LONGFEI.I.OW. 

LAWRENCE  slept  on  and  on,  utterly  ex- 
hausted as  he  was,  and  when  he  awoke 
the  first  streak  of  daylight  was  streaming  in 
through  his  north  window.  All  night  he  had 
dreamt  of  the  clay  angel.  Once  he  had  started 
up  in  his  sleep,  crying  out  that  it  was  falling. 
"  For  God's  sake,  Mabel,  Atwood,  mother, 
help  me  !  Julia,  can't  you  see  it  is  falling? 
Help  me  hold  it  up  !  Why,  I  have  passed 
months  over  this  statue  !  "  And  then  there 
was  a  change,  and  a  sense  of  quiet  fell  over 
his  dream,  and  the  great  extended  wings 
of  the  angel  seemed  to  come  forward  and  to 
cover  him  ;  and  in  his  dream  he  thanked  God 

JOO 


A  Life  for  a  Soul  101 

that  he  had  created  it,  and  there  was  a  com- 
pensation for  all  the  agony  it  had  cost  him. 
And  then  he  slept  quietly. 

But  now  the  dawn  was  coming  in.  He  rose 
hastily,  undressed  himself,  jumped  into  a  cold 
bath,  had  a  good  rub-down,  re-dressed,  threw 
the  cloth  off  his  figure,  and  turned  it  around, 
true  artist  that  he  was,  looking  at  it  from  every 
side.  Then  he  grasped  a  tool  and  began  to 
work  at  something  that  did  not  seem  right  to 
him. 

So  he  worked  on  for  three  hours,  when  there 
was  a  tap  at  the  studio  door,  and  a  child  en- 
tered with  a  line  from  Felice's  wife,  saying 
that  Felice  had  been  ill  all  night — had  eaten 
something  at  a  dinner  the  night  before,  and 
was  not  able  to  get  up.  Would  Mr.  L,awrence 
excuse  him  for  this  day  ? 

"  I  suppose  he  has  been  drinking  that  miser- 
able poisoned  wine  they  make  in  Mulberry 
Street  and  call  Chianti,"  he  ejaculated.  Then 
he  scratched  hastily  on  a  card  in  Italian, 
"  Take  care  of  yourself  and  rest  for  the  day. 
To-morrow  I  want  you  to  cast  the  angel." 

He  bade  the  child  hurry  away  with  that, 
giving  her  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon  that  was  lying 
on  the  table,  which  she  was  looking  at  with 
eager  e37es.  It  was  not  long  after  this  that 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Julia 
entered. 


IO2  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  You  have  not  slept  well,"  he  said  with  a 
little  irritation,  as  he  saw  dark  traces  under  her 
eyes. 

"  No,  Mr.  Lawrence,  I  could  scarcely  sleep 
last  night,  and  when  I  slept  it  was  worse  than 
no  sleep,  for  I  had  a  horrible  dream.  Do  j*ou 
know,  I  dreamt  that  your  angel  came  to  life 
and  walked  across  my  room  and  stood  over  me, 
and  said  :  '  What  right  have  you,  with  your 
life,  to  dream  of  posing  for  such  a  statue,' — let 
me  go  on,"  she  said  hesitatingly, — "'and 
who  ever  would  think  that  a  man  like  Mr. 
Lawrence  would  care  for  you  at  all  ?  '  " 

But  Lawrence,  absorbed  in  his  work,  seemed 
not  to  hear  her.  She  repeated  what  she  had 
said. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  your  bad  dreams,"  he  in- 
terposed ;  ' '  you  do  know  I  care  for  you  very 
greatly,  and  I  told  you  so  last  night.  Now 
you  see  my  angel  of  clay  has  not  come  to  real 
life,  and  I  thank  God  she  has  not.  I  never 
could  bear  these  figures  that  walk  off  their  ped- 
estals. There  is  a  real  life  and  an  ideal  life  in 
art,  and  I  hate  to  see  them  mixed  up.  The 
French  have  degraded  their  art  by  confusing 
these  existences." 

"But,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  Julia  said,  "you 
must  not  blame  me  for  not  sleeping.  You 
look  as  if  you  had  not  slept  for  a  week." 

"  Well,  you  see,  my  child," — the  concern  in 


A  Life  for  a  Soul  103 

her  voice  touched  him,  —  "I  have  not  had  a 
thing  to  eat  this  morning,  and  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  to  make  me  a  cup  of  coffee." 

She  had  already  laid  aside  her  hat  and  gloves 
and  muffler,  and  was  soon  busy  with  the 
coffee. 

"  You  live  quite  like  a  prince,"  she  said 
brightly,  "  and  have  real  spoons  and  cups  and 
saucers.  In  many  of  the  studios  I  get  but  a 
tin  cup,  and  a  modelling-tool  to  stir  the  sugar 
with." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  laughingly,  glancing  about 
his  workshop,  "  I  live  indeed  like  a  prince." 

After  he  had  had  his  coffee  he  began  work 
at  once.  Julia  changed  her  costume  as  usual, 
with  the  naturalness  of  one  who  had  been  ac- 
customed to  this  sort  of  thing  all  her  life,  and 
Ellerton  thought  no  more  of  it  than  if  his 
friend  Atwood  had  come  to  pose  for  him  in  the 
same  way  as  this  woman.  To  the  artist  beauty 
is  actually  sexless.  It  is  only  the  world  with 
its  petty  comments  that  leads  the  artist  to  con- 
sider that  women  are  clothed  or  nude,  and  in- 
troduces a  question  of  propriety  or  impropriety, 
which  would  not  occur  to  them  or  affect  them 
harmfully  if  they  were  left  alone  to  work  out 
their  ideals  without  this  petty  criticism. 

All  the  morning  Julia  posed,  and  Lawrence 
worked  like  a  Trojan.  They  stopped  for  a 
short  lunch,  Julia  resting  while  he  went  out 


IO4  The  Angel  of  Clay 

and  bought  a  little  fruit  and  a  small  bottle  of 
claret ;  and  when  he  returned  with  it,  and  with 
the  fresh  air  in  his  lungs,  she  arranged  it  upon 
the  table,  and  they  enjoyed  it  together.  The 
babes  in  the  wood  were  no  more  thoughtless 
of  harm  than  they.  The  afternoon  wore  on, 
the  lines  deepened  under  the  model's  eyes,  but 
Ellerton,  absorbed  in  his  work,  saw  only  the 
arms  or  the  neck  of  the  body  he  was  working 
on,  and  forgot  that  it  was  Julia  who  was  pos- 
ing, for  the  moment.  Then  he  awoke  to  the 
fact,  and  insisted  that  she  should  pause  for  a 
time  ;  but  she  always  returned  to  the  pose  be- 
fore he  bade  her  do  so.  It  was  not  the  weari- 
ness of  standing,  alone,  but  a  strange  pressure 
about  the  heart,  which  made  Julia  uncertain 
of  herself. 

Ellerton  was  working  on  some  part  behind 
the  statue,  when  of  a  sudden  he  felt  the  stand 
trembling,  and  then  came  a  dull  thud.  He 
turned,  expecting  to  see  part  of  his  clay  angel 
fallen  to  the  ground,  and  was  horrified  to  find 
that  Julia  had  fallen  from  the  stand,  struck  her 
head  against  something,  and  was  lying  upon 
the  floor  in  an  unconscious  condition.  Law- 
rence sprang  to  her  side,  tore  the  drapery  from 
her  throat  and  breast,  speaking  soothingly  to 
her  all  the  time. 

"  My  child,  my  poor  child  !  "  he  said. 
"  What  a  brute  I  was  to  keep  you  standing 


A  Life  for  a  Soul  105 

there  so  long  !  Why,  it  is  almost  dark,  and 
you  have  been  posing  since  nine  o'clock." 

He  felt  her  pulse  ;  it  was  very  feeble,  a  mere 
flutter.  Then  he  jumped  up  and  drew  a  little 
cold  water  from  the  faucet,  bathing  her  fore- 
head, and  forced  a  little  brandy  between  her 
lips. 

She  lay  there  without  a  movement,  every 
trace  of  colour  gone  from  her  cheeks,  her  eyes 
closed,  her  hair  half  fallen  back,  her  white 
neck  exposed  ;  and  he  could  not  help  think- 
ing, in  spite  of  his  anxiety,  of  her  wonderful 
beauty  and  how  he  would  make  some  day  a 
sleeping  figure  to  look  like  that.  Curious  how 
the  artist  in  a  man  —  the  subconscious  self — is 
always  on  the  alert  to  seize  what  impressions 
are  presented,  and  to  store  them  away  for 
future  use. 

Julia's  fingers  began  to  twitch  at  last,  and 
her  limbs  to  tremble.  She  drew  her  hand  up 
to  her  head,  as  if  to  clear  some  cloud  away 
from  her  brain.  Ellerton  picked  her  up  in  his 
arms  and  carried  her  to  his  rough  sofa,  placing 
her  tenderly  upon  it,  and  pushing  a  pillow 
under  her  long  tresses.  Then  he  sat  beside 
her,  chafing  her  hands,  and  doing  what  he 
could  to  bring  her  back  to  consciousness.  She 
was  beginning  to  recover  herself,  but  still  she 
seemed  to  be  uncertain  what  she  was,  if 
she  was  actually  the  angel  posing  there — and 


io6  The  Angel  of  Clay 

she  complained  of  being  cold  as  the  clay,  and 
muttered: 

' '  Do  not  put  me  into  marble  ;  I  am  not  the 
angel,  I  am  only  Julia,  the  model." 

Ellerton  threw  one  of  the  skins  over  her  and 
gathered  the  drapery  about  her  neck  ;  then  the 
great  eyes  opened  and  looked  into  his. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Law- 
rence, to  have  given  you  all  this  trouble.  I 
know  now — I  fainted  ;  the  room  began  to  turn 
around,  and  I  felt  the  angel  was  falling  on  me, 
and  about  to  kill  me.  I  tried  to  speak  and  I 
could  not,  and  I  threw  up  my  arms,  and  that 
is  all  I  remember. ' ' 

"  Poor  child  !  "  Lawrence  said,  "  it  was  my 
fault.  This  cursed  art  makes  us  forget  our 
duty  to  our  human  kind  sometimes.  I  was  so 
intent  upon  the  figure  that  I  forgot  you  were  a 
living,  breathing  woman — and  what  is  all  that 
clay  compared  with  one  human  being  ?  For- 
give me,  my  child,  forgive  me  !  " 

He  now  lifted  her  head  higher,  for  she  was 
still  weak,  and  busied  himself  with  making  her 
a  cup  of  tea,  which  he  thought  would  do  her 
good.  He  did  not  know  that  her  eyes  were 
following  him  everywhere.  She  took  the  tea 
eagerly  when  he  brought  it,  and  it  relieved  her 
at  once. 

Ellerton  felt  that  he  must  atone  in  some 
measure  for  his  thoughtlessness,  and  he  slipped 


A  Life  for  a  Soul  107 

one  arm  easily  over  the  top  of  the  sofa,  brush- 
ing her  long  hair  away  from  her  forehead. 
Then  he  leaned  forward  and  kissed  it,  saying 
half  aloud  : 

"  Poor  child  !  what  a  brute  I  have  been." 

Her  eyes  closed  as  he  said  this,  and  he  did 
not  see  a  wave  that  passed  over  her  body  akin 
to  the  tidal  waves  of  the  great  throbbing  ocean. 
It  was  now  almost  dark  in  the  studio,  the  most 
fascinating  time  of  day  to  be  there,  and  the 
most  dangerous.  Her  face  was  partially  lost 
in  the  glory  of  her  golden  hair,  a  legacy  from 
her  German  ancestor. 

"  Julia,"  Ellerton  said,  "  I  am  sorry  that  I 
am  going  away  to-morrow,  to  leave  you,  tired 
out,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  I  can  " — 
he  hesitated  — ' '  make  up  to  you  for  all  your 
work  on  this  angel." 

Something  in  her  had  been  working  more 
and  more  to  the  surface  ;  she  had  never  been 
used  to  controlling  her  feelings.  From  the 
time  she  had  begun  to  pose  until  now,  she  had 
never  had  to  ask  twice  for  anything  that  she 
had  wished. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  my  reward  shall  be," 
she  said  ;  "  mind  you,  it  is  high,  but  there  is 
one  satisfaction — when  it  is  given,  that  is  all  I 
shall  ask." 

He  had  no  idea  what  it  could  be,  but  he  was 
ready  to  give  all  he  had  in  the  studio. 


io8  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  Bend  down,  for  I  wish  to  whisper  it  in 
your  ear,"  she  said. 

He  bent  over  her,  and  she  put  her  arms  over 
his  head  and  drew  him  to  herself,  saying  : 

"  Give  me  one  loving  kiss,  just  as  you  might 
give  it  to  the  angel,  were  I  actually  she,  and 
like  the  face  in  the  photograph  there." 

On  the  impulse  of  the  moment  he  kissed  her. 
She  held  him  close  to  her  heart,  and  he  an- 
swered her  caress.  Then  he  regained  his  self- 
composure,  and  tenderly  unwound  her  arms. 
But  she  clung  to  him,  and  would  not  let  him 
leave  her.  He  could  scarcely  see  her  face. 
The  stars  had  come  out.  He  could  see  them 
high  overhead,  shining  down  upon  him 
through  his  studio  light. 

"And,  my  child,"  he  said,  trying  to  turn 
the  subject  in  a  safer  direction,  "  what  shall 
you  do  when  I  go  away  to-morrow  ?  ' ' 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  repeated.  "  God 
only  knows,  for  I  have  no  thought  beyond  the 
day  and — you." 

He  was  startled  into  the  seriousness  of  the  sit- 
uation, and  for  the  first  time  it  flashed  across  him 
that  the  woman  had  gotten  to  love  him  with  the 
love  that  will  not  be  set  aside.  He  knew  these 
natures  with  southern  blood  in  their  veins,  and 
he  knew  that  love  to  them  meant  life  or  death. 

Again  she  drew  him  down  to  herself  and 
kissed  him,  saying  : 


A  Life  for  a  Soul  109 

"  You  will  not  leave  me.  I  cannot  live  away 
from  you,  and  if  you  go,  you  will  never  see  me 
alive  again." 

"  My  God  ! "  he  thought  ;  "  what  have  I 
done  ?  " 

And  his  whole  past  association  with  the  girl 
flashed  across  him  —  how  she  had  taken  his 
many  courtesies  as  tokens  of  affection. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Julia  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  it  must  be  one  of  two  things  : 
either  let  me  live  near  you, — I  do  not  ask  to  be 
your  wife,  but  only  to  live  near  you,  where  I 
can  see  and  caress  you,  work  for  you, — or  else," 
she  faltered —  "  you  know  my  nature,  and  the 
temptations  which  surround  me.  It  is  you 
who  have  kept  me  at  my  best  since  I  first  saw 
you,  but  if  you  leave  me,  it  will  be  " — and  she 
drew  him  down  and  whispered  again  in  his  ear. 

"  No  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  no,  Julia,  for  God's 
sake  —  anything  but  that." 

She  sobbed  aloud.  After  a  pause  in  which 
the  strong  nature  of  the  man  was  confronted 
with  the  awful  seriousness  of  the  problem  he 
was  suddenly  called  upon  to  solve — a  problem 
which  involved  the  life  and  future  of  a  human 
soul,  and  which  was  to  make  this  woman  his 
wife  or  send  her  to  the  streets.  No  less  than 
this.  His  whole  life  passed  before  him.  He 
saw  his  mother  and  her  dearest  hopes  dashed 
to  the  ground  ;  that  voice  he  had  heard  in  the 


no  The  Angel  of  Clay 

Latin  Quarter,  which  had  been  such  a  revela- 
tion of  purity  to  him,  and  which  he  had 
pictured  to  his  mother  in  the  garden,  that 
moonlight  night,  when  Mabel  had  come  on 
them  with  Atwood.  The  thought  of  the  rector 
and  what  he  would  think,  not  knowing  his 
motive  for  the  marriage,  the  almost  fatal  sacri- 
fice he  was  now  resolving  to  make.  Was  it 
worth  it  ?  Was  he  called  upon  to  make  it  ? 
Just  then  his  eyes  turned  to  the  angel  —  then 
to  the  girl.  The  thought  of  this  woman  going 
from  him  to  the  street  was  the  turning  point. 
He  had  decided. 

Then  he  spoke  in  a  broken  voice,  but  firmly  : 

"  Why,  my  child,  if  you  wish  it,  you  shall 
live  with  me,  now  and  always  ;  but  you  know 
it  can  only  be  as  my  wife." 

She  was  crying  hysterically,  and  it  was  hard 
to  tell  if  with  joy  or  with  grief.  Loud  peals 
of  a  bell  startled  them  finally,  and  Lawrence 
said  : 

"  You  must  go  now,  and  I  will  see  you  to 
your  home." 

It  was  past  midnight  when  Ellerton  returned 
from  the  West  Side,  where  he  had  gone  with 
the  model  who  was  to  be  his  wife.  He  felt  in 
a  curiously  confused  state.  He  did  not  under- 
stand himself,  nor  did  he  care  to  analyse  the 
hour  and  the  mood  too  carefully. 


A  Life  for  a  Soul  1 1 1 

When  he  arrived  at  the  studio  he  lighted 
a  lamp  and  wrote  to  his  mother,  telling  her  of 
his  engagement  to  Miss  Hartmann.  It  was 
the  most  difficult  letter  he  had  ever  written. 
Then,  until  early  in  the  morning,  he  tossed 
about  on  his  bed  trying  to  make  dream  and 
reality  tally  with  one  another.  Finally  he 
slept,  to  dream  that  Julia  had  been  suddenly 
changed  by  some  divine  alchemy  into  the  angel 
he  was  attempting  to  model.  A  knock  awoke 
him  from  his  late  .sleeping,  and  a  telegraph  boy 
brought  him  word  that  his  mother  had  gone  to 
the  mountains  for  a  change.  He  breathed  a 
sigh  of  relief. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  WORLD'S  IDEA. 

"Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 

Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one." 

TENNYSON. 

IT  was  the  day  after  Ellerton's  promise  of 
marriage  that  Mrs.  Schuyler  dropped  in  at 
his  studio  to  invite  him  to  dinner  for  that 
night. 

"  It  is  now  four  o'clock,  Ellerton,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  have  a  few  errands  to  do  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  I  will  call  here  for  you  with  the 
brougham  at  five-thirty.  Not  later,  mind  you, 
so  put  on  your  wedding  garments  and  be  ready 
to  accompany  me."  And  she  added,  with  a 
certain  coquetry,  "  Let  no  pretty  model  detain 
you.  No  matter  if  they  be  as  stately  and  as 
beautiful  as  your  angel  yonder." 

And  she  looked  admiringly  at  the  figure  in 
the  centre  of  the  studio. 

"  There  is  a  pretty  Miss  Ransom,  and  I  have 
ill 


The  World's  Idea  113 

set  my  heart  on  making  a  match  for  you,  Eller- 
ton  ;  and  when  I  set  my  heart  on  a  thing,  you 
know,  I  am  very  apt  to  get  it." 

"  Dear  old  friend,  I  am  afraid  you  have  set 
your  heart  on  something  this  time  that  the 
fates  have  lifted  out  of  your  reach,"  and  to 
himself  he  thought,  "  and  out  of  my  own,  for 
that  matter." 

For  the  feeling  was  beginning  to  force  itself 
upon  him  that,  after  all,  this  marriage  was  not 
of  his  choosing. 

"  You  are  joking,  of  course,  Ellerton,"  she 
said. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Schuyler,  I  am  very  much  in 
earnest,  and  you  are  the  first  one  to  know  of 
my  engagement. ' ' 

She  looked  up  with  surprise  and  chagrin  ; 
because,  of  all  the  young  people  she  entertained 
and  cared  for,  Lawrence  was  her  favourite, 
and  she  had  planned  for  him  a  brilliant  mar- 
riage that  would  carry  his  art  rapidly  before 
the  public,  and  make  name  and  fame  possible 
without  climbing  those  wearisome  rounds  of 
the  ladder  which,  as  she  expressed  it,  are  such 
a  bore,  and  over  which  a  rich  and  sagacious 
woman  will  lift  one  without  effort. 

"  Sit  down,  Mrs.  Schuyler.  You  have  been 
a  dear  friend  to  me  ever  since  you  came  with 
little  Ruth  to  have  me  do  the  bust  of  her. 
Poor  little  Ruth  !  what  a  darling  she  was. ' ' 


' 


H4  The  Angel  of  Clay 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  of  the  world  and  of 
fashion  filled  with  tears,  for  the  child  to  whom 
Ellerton  referred  had  been  the  one  holy  link 
with  the  highest  in  the  world  to  her.  And  it 
was  because  she  had  made  such  an  idol  of  it 
that  she  now  believed  that  the  jealous  gods  had 
taken  it  away.  " 

"  Ah  !  Ellerton,  dear,  do  not  speak  of  that 
little  one  to-day.  You  know  how  it  makes 
me  feel,  and  it  will  unfit  me  for  company  to- 
night." 

Mrs.  Schuyler  was  a  distant  connection  of 
Ellerton' s  mother.  She  belonged  to  an  old 
New  York  family,  and  was  a  well-known 
woman  of  the  world.  Her  worldliness  con- 
sisted in  helping  along  by  her  social  influence 
and  tact  whatever  gifted  young  man  or  young 
woman — she  frankly  confessed  that  she  pre- 
ferred men — might  fall  in  her  pathway.  There 
was  no  social  event  of  any  importance  in  con- 
nection with  which  Mrs.  Schuyler  was  not 
mentioned.  She  was  an  undoubted  power  in 
New  York  society.  This  distant  relationship 
to  Ellerton,  and  the  eight  or  ten  years'  advant- 
age she  had  of  him,  made  all  her  calling 
upon  him,  and  entertaining,  possible  without 
gossip.  There  was  no  more  frequent  visitor 
at  the  studio  than  she,  and  scarcely  any  one 
who  was  more  welcome. 

Lawrence  would  say  to  Atwood  : 


The  World 's  Idea  115 

"  If  there  is  an  evil  day,  or  my  statue  falls 
down,  or  anything  goes  wrong,  Mrs.  Schuyler 
comes  in  and  sets  it  all  right  again.  Nothing 
seems  to  trouble  that  woman.  She  is  afraid 
of  nothing  in  this  world,  and  there  is  nothing 
she  has  not  seen,  I  believe,  that  is  worth 
seeing. ' ' 

' '  And  how  about  Mr.  Schuyler  ?  ' '  Atwood 
would  say. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Schuyler  is  the  best  fellow  in  the 
world.  He  treats  me  as  if  he  were  my  father, 
and  she  treats  him  as  if  he  were  her  son  ;  but 
he  takes  it  all  in  good  part  and,  aside  from  his 
club,  cares  more  for  her  than  anything  else  in 
the  world,  unless  it  be  for  his  particular  brand 
of  cigars.  There  was  one  thing  they  both 
loved  better  than  anything  life  held  for  them, 
and  that  was  little  Ruth,  their  only  child,  who 
died  last  winter  from  diphtheria.  How  fort- 
unate I  was,  Atwood,  to  have  made  a  good 
likeness  of  her!  They  have  never  been  able  to 
do  enough  for  me  since  then.  I  hardly  know 
which  I  care  for  most,  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Schuyler." 

Mrs.  Schuyler  was  about  to  go  when  Eller- 
ton  turned  seriously  towards  her,  and  told  her 
of  his  betrothal.  She  walked  up  and  down  the 
studio,  tapping  her  left  hand  with  a  glove  she 
had  drawn  off,  and  her  e)res  studying  the  floor, 
very  much  distracted  or  abstracted.  Presently 
she  opened  the  door  leading  out  of  the  studio, 


1 1 6  The  Angel  of  Clay 

called  to  the  footman  to  come  again  at  five 
o'clock  for  her  —  that  she  would  wait  here. 
Then  she  came  in,  turned  the  key  on  the  in- 
side of  the  door,  walked  across  to  Lawrence, 
folded  her  dainty  hands  one  over  the  other, 
looked  him  straight  in  the  face,  and  said  : 

"  Now,  Ellerton,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  the 
whole  story,  without  evasion.  Mind  you,  I 
shall  know  if  you  are  not  telling  me  the  truth, 
or  keeping  anything  back." 

"  Take  that  chair,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
most  comfortable  one  in  the  room.  He  dropped 
on  some  boxes  nearby,  half  reclining,  and  told 
the  story — that  is,  all  of  it  he  could  do  without 
in  any  way  compromising  Julia.  She  bit  her 
lips  as  he  went  on,  and  tapped  the  floor  nerv- 
ously with  her  foot,  but  did  not  speak  until 
he  had  finished.  Then  she  burst  out,  with 
more  anger  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  show 
before : 

"  Ellerton,  you  are  a  fool  !  and  I  am  going 
to  prove  it  to  you. ' ' 

Then  began  a  dissection  of  human  life  such 
as  no  one  could  give  who  had  not  had  a  large 
and  comprehensive  experience  in  it. 

"  I  have  never  called  you  a  fool  before,  but 
I  feel  warranted  in  doing  so  to-day.  Tell  me 
that  you  are  not  in  earnest,  for  I  cannot  believe 
it.  Take  care,  my  boy  ;  do  not  play  an  April 
fool's  joke  with  me,  for  this  is  stirring  my 


Tke  World's  Idea  117 

nature  in  a  way  that  is  not  pleasant  for  me  or 
desirable  for  you." 

Ellerton  looked  up,  his  eyes  met  hers  fairly 
and  squarely,  and  he  replied  : 

"  I  have  told  you  the  simple  truth,  Mrs. 
Schuyler.  I  believe  you  are  the  last  in  the 
world  I  should  try  to  deceive." 

"  My  dear  boy,  do  you  know  that  you  are 
Maying  up  for  yourself  untold  misery  ?  It  will 
end  either  in  suicide  or  a  heart-break.  But 
there  is  something  more  than  the  mere  con- 
sideration of  yourself  in  this  question.  You 
have  surely  not  forgotten  your  mother,  Eller- 
ton ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  know  me  to  forget  her  ?  " 

It  was  he  who  showed  a  little  vexation  now  ; 
these  steady  assaults  were  beginning  to  stir 
him  up  to  replies  of  a  like  nature.  He  then 
went  on  to  say  : 

"  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  use  of  our 
talking  any  further  of  this  matter,  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler. I  have  given  my  promise  that  I  shall 
marry  Miss  Hartmann.  Have  you  ever  heard 
of  a  Lawrence  breaking  his  word  ?  " 

"  Never,"  she  replied  ;  "  but  I  wish  you 
would  take  the  initiative  in  such  a  movement. 
It  was  as  I  thought.  You  have  confessed  it  ! 
It  was  you  who  have  given  the  promise,  and 
not  she.  That  girl  made  you  promise  to  marry 
her,  and  you  need  not  deny  it." 


1 1 8  The  Angel  of  Clay 

Lawrence  was  beginning  to  lose  his  self- 
control. 

' '  Mrs.  Schuyler,  I  do  not  know  who  made 
you  a  judge  over  my  actions,  and  by  what 
right  you  cross-examine  me  on  this  subject  ?  " 

She  looked  hurt,  and  the  tears  filled  into  her 
eyes  and  fell  down  upon  the  dark  rich  dress 
she  wore.  Ellerton  felt  sorry  to  have  hurt  her 
so  much. 

' '  Forgive  me,  dear  friend.  I  felt  nettled  at 
your  steady  assault." 

"  Dear  Ellerton,"  she  said,  coming  forward, 
and  laying  one  pretty  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
"  I  could  forgive  you  for  anything  but  this 
awful  blunder  you  are  about  to  make.  Now  I 
am  going  to  make  a  confession  to  you.  I 
would  not  have  minded  if  you  had  found  some 
rich  and  beautiful  woman,  to  have  helped  you 
make  your  way  in  the  world  ;  in  such  case  I 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  give  you  up.  But 
to  see  you,  whose  ambitions  I  have  made  my 
own,  throwing  your  life  away  on  a  woman  who 
can  no  more  appreciate  your  highest  qualities 
and  possibilities  than  she  can  understand  the 
movements  of  the  stars  in  their  orbits  is  too 
cruel.  Ellerton,  I  have  been  very  fond  of  you, 
— so  fond,  that  at  times  I  have  questioned  my 
affection ;  and  should  never  have  come  to  you 
here  alone  had  I  not  confidence  in  your  nobil- 
ity. 


The  World's  Idea  119 

"  Do  you  know  now,"  she  said,  looking 
down  upon  him,  "  why  it  hurts  me  in  the 
deepest  place  to  feel  that  you  are  going  to  live 
in  close  companionship  with  a  woman  who 
I  may  say  is  far  beneath  you  in  intelligence,  in 
breeding,  and  in  every  respect,  unless  it  be  in 
the  mere  charm  of  her  physical  beauty  ?  ' ' 

He  looked  up  as  she  said  this  ;  the  tears  now 
stood  in  his  eyes,  and  he  realised  what  a  beau- 
tiful woman  stood  before  him,  how  queenly, 
how  innately  a  gentlewoman. 

"  Pardon  me  for  my  impatience,  old  friend," 
he  said,  in  that  low,  measured  cadence  which 
endeared  him  to  men  and  women  alike.  "  I 
would  not  offend  any  woman  willingly,  much 
less  you.  You  know  you  were  safe  in  coming 
here,  and  safe  ' ' — he  took  her  hand  as  he  spoke 
— "  in  saying  all  you  have  said  to  me  to-day. 
I  shall  be  a  better  man  for  your  friendship, 
and  shall  strive  to  be  worthy  of  it  always. 
But,  my  friend,  this  is  a  matter  on  which  you 
and  I  have  no  longer  a  right  to  express  an 
opinion.  I  have  given  my  promise — I  may  as 
well  confess  it  —  to  that  girl  ;  and  that,  once 
given,  can  never  be  taken  back." 

Mrs.  Schuyler  sat  down  and  drew  her  hand 
over  her  eyes,  and  did  not  speak  for  several 
minutes.  There  was  something  tragic  in  the 
silence  that  gave  Ellerton  a  strange  feeling 
about  his  heart,  and  he  was  glad  when  a  rap 


1 20  The  Angel  of  Clay 

at  the  door  told  him  that  her  carriage  had 
come  to  carry  her  home. 

' '  You  will  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  go  to  your 
dinner  to-night,"  he  said  softly,  accompanying 
her  to  the  door. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  pressed  his  hand  and 
went  out  with  a  sorrowful  look  on  her  face,  a 
look  that  he  had  not  seen  there  since  the  day 
when  little  Ruth  had  died. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MOTHER  AND  SON 

"  Bieak  from  thy  body's  grasp,  thy  spirit's  trance  ; 
Give  thy  soul  air,  thy  faculties  expanse ; 
Ivove,  joy,  even  sorrow, — yield  thyself  to  all! 
They  make  thy  freedom,  groveler,  not  thy  thrall. 
Knock  off  the  shackles  which  thy  spirit  bind 
To  dust  and  sense,  and  set  at  large  the  mind ! 
Then  move  in  sympathy  with  God's  great  whole, 
And  be  like  man  at  first,  a  living  soul." 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA. 

IT  had  been  a  tiresome  journey  from  New 
York  to  New  England  for  Ellerton  Law- 
rence, notwithstanding  the  beauty  of  the  early 
May,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  going  to  his 
mother's  home.  How  many  times  he  had  been 
over  the  road  between  these  two  cities  from  the 
time  he  had  first  left  his  New  England  home, 
to  take  up  the  serious  art  studies  in  New  York, 
until  to-day,  when  he  came  back  to  it  with  a 
reputation  established.  The  thought  of  coming 
back  to  meet  the  mother  he  loved  so  well  had 
made  his  heart  beat  high  on  many  a  journey; 
but  to-day  he  made  his  way  across  the  narrow 


1 2  2  The  A  ngel  of  Clay 

streets,  to  take  the  late  afternoon  train  for  the 
suburb  in  which  the  Lawrences  had  lived  for 
nearly  two  hundred  years,  with  feelings  any- 
thing but  gay. 

He  was  in  time  to  catch  his  train,  and  in 
twenty-five  minutes  he  stepped  out  at  his 
native  town,  nodded  to  the  stationmaster  and 
the  men  he  had  seen  about  since  boyhood,  and 
passed  on  up  the  hill  towards  the  home  of  his 
mother.  What  was  it  that  made  his  heart 
heavy,  when  it  should  have  been  glad  with  the 
unspeakable  joy  of  home  coming  ?  And  his 
mother,  how  did  she  feel  ?  Did  she  know 
what  was  coming  ?  No,  he  had  not  told  her. 
How  did  she  know  then  ? 

He  liked  to  steal  in  upon  her  and  find  her  in 
the  stately  garden,  under  the  old  elm  tree,  or 
standing  by  the  old  box  hedge,  or  sitting  in 
the  library  with  a  book  and  looking  away 
towards  the  hills.  He  was  proud  of  his 
mother  —  proud  of  her  to-day  as  a  man,  as  he 
had  been  proud  of  her  when  he  was  a  boy. 
Slowly  he  passed  up  the  hillside,  and  stopped 
under  some  old  English  elms,  that  had  been 
planted  by  the  first  settlers  who  strayed  from 
Dorchester  to  the  neighbouring  hills  and  made 
their  homes  there.  He  loved  to  come  back 
to  this  place,  as  ripe  in  its  perfected  beauty  as 
the  heart  of  old  England. 

It  was  a  beautiful  country,  the  hills  rolling 


Mother  and  Son  123 

away  to  the  south  and  as  far  to  the  west  as  the 
eye  could  see,  and  to  the  north  the  bay,  dotted 
with  ships  whose  sails  were  now  touched  with 
the  evening  sun,  and  then,  beyond  them  again, 
the  blue  sea  mingled  with  the  lighter  blue  of 
the  sky.  Ellertou  loved  the  old  town.  He 
loved  to  get  back  to  it  from  the  hurly-burly  of 
the  metropolis,  and  from  the  society  which 
sought  him  out  with  a  persistence  that  was 
difficult  to  avoid.  It  was  well  for  him  to  have 
such  a  place  to  return  to,  worn  with  the  city 
life  and  the  various  frivolous  dissipations  into 
which  one  is  drawn  in  these  modern  days.  He 
passed  on,  catching  through  the  trees  glints  of 
a  river,  and  through  long  vistas  hills  purple  in 
the  twilight.  He  stopped  every  hundred  feet 
for  some  cherished  view  he  had  marked  out 
years  ago.  Fortunately,  he  met  no  one.  He 
wished  to  be  alone  to  drink  in  the  fresh,  quiet 
beauty  of  the  place  and  hour,  and  rest  his 
nature  so  that  he  could  face  the  problem  before 
him  with  better  spirit  and  perfect  justice. 

There  are  times  when  the  very  landscape 
seems  to  take  on  the  mood  of  the  beholder. 
This  brooding  stillness,  the  absence  of  the 
neighbours  he  was  accustomed  to  meet  on  the 
roads,  the  quiet  air  scarcely  broken  by  a  bird's 
note  ;  all  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something 
momentous  to  happen.  But  he  had  gone  on 
brooding  and  thinking,  dreaming  of  the  past, 


1 24  The  Angel  of  Clay 

striving  to  get  away  from  the  present,  filled 
with  thoughts  of  the  old  home,  the  old  days, 
his  old  playmates,  his  chums,  and  some  who 
had  lived  and  still  lived  in  a  house  not  two 
hundred  feet  from  where  he  was  standing, — 
and  of  this  strange  being  who  was  to  be  his 
wife.  He  stopped,  for  he  heard  a  low,  sweet 
voice  as  if  of  some  one  singing  to  herself  with- 
out any  accompanying  instrument. 

"  A  Highland  laddie  there  lived  o'er  the  way — a  lad- 
die both  noble  and  gallant  and  gay, 

Who  loved  a  lassie  as  noble  as  he,  a  bonnie  sweet 
lassie,  the  maid  o'  Dundee  ; 

This  lassie  had  lands,  but  the  laddie  had  nane,  and 
yet  to  her  it  was  all  the  same, 

For  dearly  she  loved  him,  and  said  she  knew,  this 
laddie  dear  laddie  was  gude  and  true. 

He  knew  the  voice,  and  over  his  face  passed 
an  expression  of  peace  that  it  had  not  known  for 
many  a  week. 

What  is  there  in  the  human  voice,  beyond 
all  the  instruments  made  by  the  hand  of  man, 
to  loosen  the  care  that  fastens  upon  man's 
spirit  and  makes  his  life  a  burden,  in  a  world 
that  is  more  beautiful  than  any  paradise  his 
imagination  can  frame  ?  He  could  catch  the 
words  of  the  song  ;  't  was  a  Scotch  ballad, 
—  who  has  not  heard  and  been  moved  by  its 
sweetness  and  truth  ? — Bonnie  Sweet  Bessie,  the 
Maid  d1  Dundee. 


Mother  and  Son  125 

"  Ere  years  or  even  months  had  fled,  this  lad  and  las- 
sie were  happily  wed, 

Nae  better  wifey  e'er  lived  on  the  lea,  than  bonnie 
sweet  Bessie,  the  maid  o'  Dundee. 

A  happier  hame  nae  man  ever  had,  than  this  which 
held  twa  hearts  so  glad, 

And  ne'er  did  Bessie  have  cause  to  rue  her  wedding 
this  laddie,  sae  gude  and  true. 

Now  the  voice  grew  so  faint  that  he  could  not 
follow  the  words,  except  that  he  knew  them  so 
well  and  had  heard  the  same  lips  sing  them  a 
hundred  times. 

"  But  sorrow  came  to  her  heart  one  day  and  her  dear 
darlin'  was  taken  away, 

Then  oh,  how  sad  and  lone  was  she,  poor  bonnie 
sweet  Bessie,  the  maid  o'  Dundee. 

And  when  in  the  ground  her  darlin'  they  laid,  her 
heart  then  broke  and  she  fervently  prayed, 

'  O  God  in  heaven,  let  me  go  too,  and  be  wi'  my  lad- 
die sae  gude  and  true.'  " 

He  did  not  dare  to  stop  long,  for  his  first  im- 
pulse was  to  leap  the  wall,  to  cross  the  lawn, 
break  in  upon  the  singer,  and  call  to  her  with 
the  endearing  terms  of  an  old  friend  and  of  one 
who  knows  he  is  welcome  because  he  is  loved 
with  a  love  that  passeth  friendship.  But  his 
errand,  and  the  thought  of  his  mother,  bade 
him  hasten  on,  and  with  a  sigh  he  turned  his 
face  from  the  singer  and  walked  hastily  on 
across  the  meadows,  so  as  to  be  sure  to  be  alone 
with  his  thoughts  and  to  enter  the  old  home 


1 26  The  Angel  of  Clay 

through  the  back  of  the  garden.  The  song  still 
pursued  him,  and  he  repeated  the  words  to 
himself.  They  came  home  with  a  peculiar 
meaning  to  him  at  this  moment.  He  was 
about  to  plunge  through  the  hedgerow  that 
divided  his  mother's  place  from  the  road  when 
he  ran  point-blank  into  the  arms  of  the  old 
gardener. 

"  Well,  James,  what  are  you  doing  here  at 
this  hour  ?  "  he  said  pleasantly  to  the  old  man. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Ellerton,  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
The  things  is  awful  sad  about  the  place  the 
last  month." 

"  Sad,  James  ;  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Your  mother,  Mr.  Ellerton,  is  changed  a 
bit  since  the  last  time  you  were  here." 

It  suddenly  broke  upon  Ellerton  that  he  had 
not  been  home  for  a  month. 

"  Your  mother  have  grown  a  bit  whiter,  Mr. 
Ellerton,"  continued  the  old  man  ;  "  you 
must  n't  take  on  about  that,  however  —  and 
she  has  not  been  out  in  the  garden  since  she 
came  back  from  the  mountains." 

Ellerton  started  back  as  if  he  had  been  struck 
by  a  sharp  stone. 

' '  Not  been  out  for  a  fortnight,  James  ? 
What  do  you  mean,  man  ;  is  she  ill  ?  "  and  in 
his  earnestness  he  took  the  old  man  by  the 
shoulder  and  looked  down  into  his  face. 

"  Well,  she  is  not  exactly  ill,  but  there  is 


Mother  and  Son  127 

something  gone  wrong,"  and  the  old  man's 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  You  see,  Mr.  Eller- 
ton,  she  don't  smile  any  more,  and  she  never 
touches  the  pianny  as  she  did  when  you  lived 
here  ;  and  I  comes  upon  her  sometimes  in  your 
room  off  the  conservatory,  and  I  notice  her 
eyes  is  filled  with  tears.  There  is  the  same 
look  there  she  had  when  your  blessed  little 
sister  was  taken  away  —  but  you  're  too  young 
to  remember  that ;  why  you  was  only  a  boy  in 
short  trousers  then.  It  took  her  five  years  to 
get  that  pained  look  out  of  her  eyes,  and  it  was 
when  you  came  back  home  with  the  figure 
that  took  the  first  prize  at  the  show  that  I 
says  to  Ellen  in  the  kitchen,  '  The  Missus  looks 
like  herself  again,  her  eyes  is  bright  as  two 
stars.'  But  pardon  me  speaking  to  ye  in  this 
way,  Mr.  Ellerton  ;  I  was  with  your  mother 
when  your  father  came  a-courting  her." 

Ellerton  had  been  listening  to  the  old  man's 
rambling  talk  in  a  distracted  way.  The 
thought  of  his  mother's  pain  was  so  great  that 
it  seemed  to  paralyse  him,  and  he  was  leaning 
for  support  against  the  bowed  form  of  the  old 
gardener  who  stood  beside  him.  He  now 
gathered  his  faculties  together  and,  speaking  a 
comforting  word  to  the  old  man,  turned  slowly 
to  the  house,  through  the  clump  of  pine  trees, 
and  approached  the  library  window.  It  was 
open  ;  the  room  was  vacant,  and  he  swung 


1 28  The  Angel  of  Clay 

himself  noiselessly  over  the  sill  and  down  on 
the  soft  carpet.  He  seemed  to  lose  his  senses 
for  the  moment,  and  he  dropped  into  a  rocking- 
chair,  and  gripped  the  arm  with  a  force  that 
seemed  to  awaken  consciousness  again  or  to 
hold  on  to  it  at  least.  His  mother  was  in  the 
next  room,  perhaps.  No,  James  had  told  him 
she  had  not  been  down  for  some  time.  There 
was  a  lamp  lighted  in  the  hall,  and  through 
the  open  door  he  could  see  her  portrait,  painted 
by  his  friend  Atwood.  How  stately  she  looked 
in  that  black  silk,  with  her  brown  hair  brushed 
back,  and  in  her  hand  the  Jacqueminot  roses  he 
loved  to  bring  her  from  the  garden. 

"  Precious  mother,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  How  often  have  I  vowed  I  would  keep  the 
roses  about  you  as  long  as  you  live.  I  would 
shower  them  about  your  path ;  and  now  I  have 
brought  you  the  sharpest  thorn  that  a  son  can 
bring." 

He  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  the  face 
of  the  picture,  and  the  eyes  seemed  to  look  back 
with  unspeakable  blessing  into  his  own  ;  great 
hot  tears  fell  from  his  eyes.  He  spoke  half 
aloud  the  words  : 

"Can  I  do  it?    Can  I  do  it  ?" 

Then  he  rose  to  his  feet,  saying  :  "  I  will 
give  the  girl  up.  I  will  do  anything  to  save 
my  mother  from  one  heart's  pain,  be  she  right 
or  wrong.  What  she  wishes,  I  will  do,  so 


Mother  and  Son  129 

help  me  God  !  "  As  he  spoke  he  looked  up 
and  lifted  his  right  hand  to  heaven  as  a  token 
of  his  vow  and  determination  to  keep  it  at  any 
price.  Strength  seemed  to  come  back  to  his 
heart  and  back  to  his  brain.  Everything  grew 
clear  again,  and  the  troubled  look  upon  his 
face  gave  place  to  a  look  of  determination. 

"  Mother,  is  it  our  fault  that  you  know 
nothing  of  the*  world  ?  —  that  you  have  lived 
always  in  this  pure,  simple  atmosphere  of  a 
New  England  home,  standing  by  the  principles 
of  right  and  wrong  for  which  our  ancestors 
died  ?  No,  dear  soul,  you  are  right,  in  spite 
of  this  one  case  of  mine,  which  may  seem  to 
you  to  be  all  wrong. ' '  He  started  towards  the 
stair,  walking  quietly  but  firmly,  and  mounted 
slowly  towards  his  mother's  room.  He  reached 
the  door  and  looked  in.  She  was  leaning  on 
her  hand,  looking  out  at  her  favourite  view 
across  the  meadows  down  to  the  sea.  It  was 
dark,  and  he  could  only  see  the  outlines  of  her 
form.  Ellerton  spoke  softly  the  word  : 

"Mother!" 

It  had  been  scarcely  uttered,  before  she  arose 
and  opened  her  arms,  coming  towards  him. 
He  did  not  see  until  she  was  close  upon  him 
the  change  that  had  come  to  her  face  and  form, 
and  his  great,  strong  arms  clasped  her  close 
with  that  protecting  love  that  can  only  come- 
from  a  son  to  a  mother. 

9 


1 30  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  Dear,  gentle,  patient  mother,"  he  mut- 
tered, "  my  first  and  best  love.  I  have  come 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  come  to  carry  out  your 
best  wishes,  and  that  your  wish  is  my  wish." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  saying  : 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  knew  you  would  do  right 
in  any  case,  and  I  knew  you  would  come  and 
tell  me  this.  Hour  after  hour  have  I  stood  by 
your  picture  in  the  library,  and  looked  into 
the  face  that  looked  out  to  mine,  and  opposite 
that  of  your  brave  uncle,  my  brother,  who  gave 
his  life  without  one  thought  of  self,  for  this 
dear  land  ;  and  I  said  to  myself  over  and  over, 
'  My  boy  will  give  himself,  no  matter  what  it 
cost,  to  what  is  right.'  I  knew  you  would 
come,  Ellerton." 

The  man's  heart  was  throbbing  within  him 
with  an  intensity  of  feeling  that  threatened  to 
kill  him  unless  some  relief  came. 

"  Mother,  come  up  to  my  old  study  in  the 
tower,  and  let  me  lie  down  in  the  old  place, 
where  I  used  to  go  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
where  you  used  to  hear  all  my  troubles  ;  and 
run  your  hands  through  my  hair,  as  you  did 
then,  and  talk  to  me  again  as  if  I  were  a  boy, 
and  let  me  forget  that  there  is  any  world  out- 
side of  this  home,  or  any  art  but  that  I  have 
learned  here  from  you,  which  is  to  love  and  to 
live  simply  and  nobly  —  or  any  love  but  mine 
for  you,  sweetest  and  best  of  mothers. ' ' 


Mother  and  Son  1 3 1 

And  the  vow  that  he  had  made  was  nullified 
by  the  one  whom  it  alone  was  destined  to  pro- 
tect and  save  from  anguish  —  by  his  mother's 
quiet  acceptance  of  his  engagement,  which  she 
believed  to  be  the  only  honourable  solution  of 
a  difficulty  she  did  not  understand  and  was  too 
trustful  to  probe. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A   FORLORN   HOPE 

"  The  more  thou  datn'st  it  up,  the  more  it  burns  ; 
The  current  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 
Thou  knowest,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth  rage ; 
But  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 
He  makes  sweet  music  with  the  enamoured  stones, 
Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  ; 
And  so,  by  many  winding  nooks,  he  strays, 
With  willing  sport,  to  the  wild  ocean." 

SHAKESPEARE. 

MRS.  SCHUYLER  drove  away  from  El- 
lerton's  studio  not  only  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  but  with  tears  in  her  heart.  She  drew 
the  curtain  over  the  carriage  window  to  screen 
herself  from  the  curious  eyes  in  passing  vehi- 
cles. There,  alone,  being  driven  rapidly  over 
the  streets  of  the  great  metropolis,  this  woman 
sobbed  piteously.  Arriving  at  her  own  home 
uptown,  she  went  directly  to  her  room  and 
threw  herself  on  a  couch. 

After  the  first  outpouring  in  the  carriage, 
a  calmness  had  come  over  her  which  betokened 
132 


A  Forlorn  Hope  133 

either  acceptance  or  a  determination  to  use 
her  energies  to  better  purpose  than  in  wast- 
ing emotion.  It  was  the  latter  in  this  case, 
and  her  quick  intellect  was  at  work  already, 
planning  a  campaign  against  this  woman, 
this  model,  the  daughter  of  an  Italian  model, 
—  as  she  had  learned  from  Atwood,  —  who 
had  dared  to  claim  this  man  for  whom  she  had 
planned  such  a  brilliant  future.  Ten  minutes 
had  not  passed  before  her  whole  campaign  was 
planned,  and  she  proceeded  at  once  to  the 
carrying  out  of  the  same. 

She  sat  down  and  wrote  a  note  to  John  At- 
wood, called  for  a  telegraph  messenger,  and 
despatched  it  at  once.  It  bore  a  request  to 
come  to  her  house  at  once,  for  dinner;  and  if 
not  possible  for  dinner,  to  come  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  no  matter  how  late.  As  it  was, 
Atwood  was  dining  out  with  some  brother  art- 
ists, and  did  not  return  to  the  studio  until  ten 
o'clock.  The  note  was  so  imperative  that  he 
determined  to  go  to  the  Schuylers'  mansion 
even  at  that  late  hour.  A  servant  waiting  at 
the  door  let  him  in  at  once,  and  in  the  library 
— it  was  now  half-past  ten — he  found  Mrs. 
Schuyler  alone,  pacing  up  and  down  the  room 
as  if  much  disturbed  by  something. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Atwood,"  she  said;  "par- 
don my  calling  upon  you  in  such  a  peremptory 
way,  but  something  of  great  importance  has 


1 34  The  Angel  of  Clay 

occurred,  and  I  wish  to  ask  your  advice  con- 
cerning it." 

At  wood  felt  flattered,  as  any  man  might,  at 
the  confidence  of  this  graceful  woman,  and  re- 
plied that  he  would  be  glad  to  serve  her  in  any 
way  possible. 

"  By  the  by,  Mr.  Atwood,"  she  began, 
"  have  you  seen  that  figure  of  the  angel  our 
friend,  Mr.  Lawrence,  is  at  work  upon  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  jres,"  said  Atwood;  "  I  have  watched 
it  from  the  beginning." 

' '  It  seems  to  me, ' '  she  went  on,  "to  be  El- 
lerton's  best  work.  The  figure  of  the  angel  is 
so  dignified  and  yet  so  womanly." 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  said, ' '  it  has  all  the  grandeur  of 
a  Greek  caryatide,  with  something  modern 
which  I  may  perhaps  best  characterise  by  the 
word  '  Christian.'  " 

"  It  has,"  Mrs.  Schuyler  continued,  "  a  hu- 
man sweetness  which  does  not  take  from  its 
stateliness,  but  adds  greatly  to  its  loveliness." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Mrs.  Schuyler;  the 
angel  is  his  masterpiece." 

"  I  should  think,"  she  went  on,  "  that  it 
would  be  very  difficult,  Mr.  Atwood,  to  find  a 
model  fair  enough  to  pose  for  such  a  statue." 

"  It  is  difficult,"  Atwood  replied,  "  and  El- 
lerton  was  fortunate  in  getting  this  Miss  Hart- 
man  n  to  pose  for  him,  for  she  is  wilful  and  not 
dependent  entirely  upon  the  artists  for  her 


A  Forlorn  Hope  135 

living;  and  it  is  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  fa- 
vour, her  posing,  rather  than  a  service  for 
which  she  is  paid." 

' '  Hm !— Miss  Hartmann  ?  ' '  Mrs.  Schuyler 
repeated  the  name  with  as  much  unconcern  as 
possible. 

"  Yes,  Julia  Hartmann.  Have  you  never 
met  her  or  heard  of  her  in  the  studios  ?  ' '  At- 
wood  asked. 

"  I  have  never  met  her,  although,  no  doubt, 
I  have  seen  her  face  and  form  in  many  of  the 
Academy  pictures." 

"  Yes,  Julia  posed  for  this  statue." 

Mrs.  Schuyler  noted  the  fact  that  Atwood 
called  Miss  Hartmann  by  her  first  name,  and 
the  model  sank  a  step  lower  in  her  estimation. 

"  Oh,  speaking  of  this  model,  who  you  say 
is  so  beautiful,  reminds  me  of  an  important 
thing  which  has  been  in  my  mind  " — for  how 
long  she  did  not  say.  "  I  wish  you  to  paint  a 
picture  for  me.  It  is  a  subject  that  has  haunted 
my  imagination  for  a  number  of  years.  A 
picture  of  Zenobia,  the  Queen  of  the  East,  in 
some  resplendent  robe,  scarlet,  adorned  with 
jewels — you  will  know  best,  for  you  are  a 
born  colourist,  so  Ellerton  says.  Well,  I  have 
decided  to  make  myself  a  Christmas  present  of 
this  picture.  A  dear  old  aunt  of  mine  died 
lately,  leaving  me  a  little  legacy,  and  I  have 
determined  to  use  the  money  in  this  way. 


1 36  The  Angel  of  Clay 

And  you  must  spare  no  expense  on  the 
costume. ' ' 

Atwood's  heart  gave  an  upward  bound,  as 
he  thought  of  numerous  unpaid  bills  which 
it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  his  mind  to  get 
settled. 

"  If  I  can  get  Miss  Hartmann  to  pose," 
Atwood  suggested, — the  very  thing  that  Mrs. 
Schuyler  had  wished  him  to  say,  — ' '  why,  I 
would  do  the  picture  at  once  for  you,  while 
your  desire  to  possess  it  is  still  eager.  One 
works  so  much  better  when  one  is  trying  to 
satisfy  some  one's  earnest  longing." 

"  The  quicker  you  can  do  it,  the  better  I 
shall  be  pleased." 

She  was  now  wondering  if  it  would  not  be 
wise  to  break  the  news  of  Ellerton's  engage- 
ment to  Atwood;  but  her  discretion  counselled 
against  this  proceeding,  and  with  a  few  part- 
ing words,  and  the  hope  again  expressed  that 
he  would  go  to  work  at  once  and  paint  stead- 
ily till  the  picture  was  done,  she  bade  him 
good-by,  promising  to  come  very  soon  and  find 
out  how  the  work  was  progressing. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   MODEIv   INSUI/TED 

"  A  friend  should  bear  a  friend's  infirmities." 

SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  next  morning  after  his  call  on  Mrs. 
Schuyler,  Atwood  bought  a  canvas,  and 
sent  a  telegram  to  Julia  Hartmann  to  come  at 
once  to  his  studio,  for  he  had  something  very 
important  on  hand.  She  came  soon  after  re- 
ceiving the  telegram,  thinking  perhaps  Law- 
rence would  be  there,  or  that  Atwood  had  some 
word  to  communicate  regarding  him.  He 
greeted  her  cordially,  and  told  her  of  his  desire 
to  paint  the  Eastern  Queen,  showed  her  some 
beautiful  stuff,  which  he  was  quite  right  in 
supposing  would  greatly  influence  her  in  the 
matter  of  posing,  and  added : 

"  When  the  pose  is  finished,  these  stuffs  are 
to  be  your  own ;  and  this  necklace,  which,  if 
not  of  real  diamonds,  is  still  very  beautiful,  is 
also  to  be  yours." 

She  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  try  on 
137 


138  The  Angel  of  Clay 

the  rich  silken  drapery  and  the  necklace  of 
imitation  diamonds,  and  to  pose  before  the 
mirror,  sweeping  her  arms  about  in  graceful 
lines,  which  made  Atwood  wish  he  could  paint 
her  in  every  possible  attitude,  instead  of  the 
one  he  had  chosen  —  in  which  she  was  to  be 
seated  on  a  dais,  her  right  arm  leaning  on  the 
head  of  a  winged  lion,  symbolic  of  the  Oriental 
religious  mythology. 

Finally  she  assumed  the  pose,  and,  forget- 
ting Atwood's  presence,  began  living  over  the 
scene  of  two  days  ago  in  the  studio  with 
Ellerton. 

"  I  did  not  force  him  to  marry  me,"  she  said 
to  herself— she  was  too  proud  to  confess  this. 
' '  I  did  say  I  wanted  to  be  near  him ;  but,  after 
all,  he  was  the  one  who  spoke  of  marriage." 

She  suddenly  wondered  if  Lawrence  had 
spoken  of  his  engagement  to  Atwood,  and  in 
what  light  the  latter  regarded  it.  Without 
looking  up,  she  said: 

"  Mr.  Atwood,  has  Mr.  Lawrence  been  here 
lately  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,"  Atwood  responded,  "  but  he 
was  here  yesterday  for  several  hours." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  anything  new  ?  " 

"  No,  only  that  he  wished  that  confounded 
angel  was  finished." 

"What!  Did  he  say  that?"  interrupted 
Julia,  annoyed. 


The  Model  Insulted  1 39 

"  That  is  rather  rough  on  you,  Julia,  to  be 
sure,  as  you  have  been  posing  for  it  ;  but  think 
how  the  poor  fellow  has  worked  over  that 
figure  ;  and  then,  too,  he  said  he  had  not  slept 
the  night  before,  and  was  feeling  very 
rocky. ' ' 

This  information  was  not  the  kind  of  news 
Julia  had  hoped  for,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
Italian  mother  was  beginning  to  move  within 
her. 

"  Did  he  say  anything  to  you  about  his  en- 
gagement ? ' '  she  asked,  point-blank,  in  a 
defiant  mood. 

Atwood  started,  so  much  surprised  was  he, 
and  almost  dropped  his  palette. 

' '  His  engagement  !  No  ;  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  only  joking,"  she  replied, 
thinking  she  would  break  the  news  less 
abruptly. 

"  Well,  please  do  not  joke  on  such  subjects. 
L,awrence  is  my  very  best  friend,  and  if  he  has 
any  engagements,  I  should  like  to  hear  them 
before  his  models." 

"  What  kind  of  a  woman  do  you  think  Mr. 
Lawrence  ought  to  marry  ?  " 

"  What  kind  of  a  woman  ?  "  Atwood  replied, 
wondering  at  her  interest.  "  Well,  I  have 
often  pictured  to  myself  the  kind  of  a  woman 
he  ought  to  marry.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  a 


140  The  Angel  of  Clay 

Mrs.  Schuyler, — a  distant  connection,  I  believe, 
of  his, — who  goes  to  his  studio  very  frequently. 
A  tall,  graceful  woman;  once,  before  her  mar- 
riage, the  great  belle  in  New  Orleans,  and  now 
the  leader  of  the  best  set  in  New  York  society. 
A  lady  born,  in  speech  and  movement.  A 
woman  who  would  have  Lawrence's  good  at 
heart,  and  carry  him  to  the  front  ranks  of  the 
profession  ;  and  if  she  had  $100,000,  or  more, 
it  would  do  him  no  harm." 

Julia  listened  silently  to  Atwood's  talk,  and 
again  was  tempted  to  tell  him  of  the  surprising 
news  she  had.  Irritated  by  the  picture  At- 
wood  had  drawn  in  his  imagination,  she 
yielded  this  time  to  her  bad  feelings,  and 
spoke  very  plainly. 

"  And,  Mr.  Atwood," — raising  herself  from 
the  dais,  and  walking  across  to  the  mirror, 
where  she  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height, 
all  her  injured  beauty  on  the  qui  vive, — "  what 
would  you  think  of  Mr.  Lawrence  marrying  " 
— she  paused — Atwood  looked  up  inquiringly, 
— <(me?" 

Atwood  leaned  back  and  laughed. 

"  You  ?  Well,  Julia,  I  do  not  mean  to  be 
unjust  to  you:  it  would  not  be  very  graceful 
after  your  kindness  in  posing  for  my  Sappho; 
but  I  should  think  the  fellow  had  lost  his  head 
if  he  ever  did  such  a  thing." 

"And  why  ?  "  she  answered,  stamping  her 


The  Model  Insulted  141 

foot,  with  more  indignation  than  he  could  un- 
derstand. 

"  Why,  my  dear  girl  ?  Lawrence  comes  of 
an  old  Puritan  stock,  who  pick  wives  for  their 
sons  with  the  same  carefulness  that  the 
matches  are  made  out  in  Europe,  except  that 
moral  worth  counts  for  more  here  than  it  does 
there.  If  you  had  ever  seen  his  mother,  you 
would  not  ask  me  that." 

At  the  mention  of  his  mother,  Julia  dropped 
into  a  chair,  supporting  her  head  with  her  right 
hand,  and  wandered  off  into  one  of  her  ab- 
stractions. She  was  thinking  of  her  own 
mother,  and  how  different  she  must  have  been 
from  the  mother  of  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"  Julia,  my  dear  girl,"  Atwood  still  went  on, 
"  do  not  fill  your  head  with  silly  notions  about 
such  a  marriage.  They  always  turn  out  un- 
happily. Lawrence  is  no  more  fitted  to  live 
with  you  than  you  are  fitted  to  live  with 
him." 

He  thought  that  perhaps  he  had  hurt  her 
feelings,  and  tried  to  atone  for  doing  so  in 
some  measure. 

"  The  fellow  is  a  perfect  crank,  just  as  I  am 
— in  fact,  we  all  are  cranks,  we  artists;  you 
know  this,  Julia — you  are  one  of  them." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,"  she  answered  de- 
murely. 

' '  Well,  don' t  you  see,  Julia,  it  would  never 


142  The  Angel  of  Clay 

do  for  you,  a  crank,  to  marry  another  crank  ? 
There  are  plenty  of  rich  young  men  about  New 
York  who  would  jump  at  the  chance  of  marry- 
ing you.  Why,  there  's  that  fellow  I  saw  you 
with  the  other  day,  who  won  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars at  the  last  races,  so  you  told  me.  What 
was  his  name — Perry,  was  it  not  ?  Did  n't  he 
give  you  a  box  of  gloves  on  the  strength 
of  it?" 

"  I  have  forgotten,"  she  answered  with 
anger;  for  she  did  not  wish  to  think  of  Perry 
at  the  same  time  with  Lawrence.  ' '  I  scarcely 
know  Mr.  Perry,  and  please  don't  mention  his 
name  in  connection  with  me,  and  especially 
with  Mr.  Lawrence." 

"  I  saw  you  at  the  theatre  with  him  once  — 
not  a  month  ago,"  he  replied. 

' '  And  what  if  you  did  ?  You  see  me  with  a 
number  of  different  men." 

"  I  do  not  deny  it,"  he  said  sarcastically. 

"  Well,  whatever  you  may  think  of  my  en- 
gagement, Mr.  Atwood,  I  will  tell  you,  on  my 
word  of  honour,  that  your  friend  asked  me  to 
be  his  wife  the  night  before  last,  at  his  studio ; 
or  rather  I  promised  to  marry  him." 

Atwood  rose  indignantly,  replying: 

"It  is  more  likelj'  that  you  promised  than 
that  he  asked  you.  I  cannot  believe  Lawrence 
has  made  such  a  fool  of  himself. ' ' 

' '  Take  care ! ' '  she  said.     ' '  I  can  resent  an 


The  Model  Insulted  143 

insult  as  quickly  as  any  one,  even  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler,"  she  remarked  with  sarcasm. 

"Julia  Hartmann,  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
honestly:  are  you  joking  with  me  or  not  ?  " 

' '  I  will  tell  you  no  more,  honestly  or  other- 
wise. You  have  insulted  me,  and  I  shall  tell 
Mr.  Lawrence  so,  and  let  him  settle  with 
you." 

As  she  said  this,  she  tore  the  necklace  from 
her  neck  and  threw  it  upon  the  floor,  stripped 
off  the  draper}',  with  no  great  tenderness,  and 
putting  on  her  street  dress  left  the  studio  with- 
out another  word. 

Atwood  was  too  much  disturbed  to  think  of 
her  abrupt  departure.  His  picture,  paints, 
and  everything  were  set  aside.  He  reached 
down  behind  his  bed  and  took  out  his  violin 
case,  drew  from  it  the  instrument  Lawrence 
had  given  him,  and  which  he  cherished  next 
perhaps  to  his  mother's  memory,  and  began  to 
play.  This  instrument  was  his  solace  in  times 
of  despair,  and  a  safety-valve  in  times  of  dan- 
gerous buoyancy.  All  his  wild  desires  and 
fevered  imaginations  found  safe  expression 
here.  After  he  had  played  for  an  hour  he  felt 
calmer,  and  glancing  at  the  clock,  he  saw  it 
was  five. 

"  By  Jove!  "  he  said,  "  I  will  go  straight  to 
Lawrence,  and  find  out  the  truth  about  this 
whole  matter.  I  shall  not  eat  or  sleep  until  I 


144  The  Angel  of  Clay 

know."  And,  putting  his  violin  away  as  ten- 
derly as  a  mother  lays  her  babe  to  rest  at  even- 
ing, he  snatched  a  hat  from  the  top  of  his  easel, 
and  locking  his  door,  hurried  away  to  Law- 
rence's studio. 


PART  11 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  THORNS   OP 


"I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee 
Who  growest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 
In  reverence  and  in  charity." 

TENNYSON. 

EIvLERTON'S  marriage  was  now  a  thing 
of  the  past.  He  had  not  been  married 
six  hours  before  he  realised  that  he  had  made 
a  mistake  that,  if  not  fatal  in  its  results,  would 
take  out  of  his  life  much  of  the  joy  and  freedom 
that  the  Creator  places  in  the  hearts  of  those 
who  are  to  create.  Many  men  would  have 
settled  down  to  the  companionship  of  a  woman 
so  attractive  as  Julia  with  utter  content.  -But 
with  Lawrence  it  was  otherwise.  In  part,  it 
was  the  fault  of  his  art  ;  for  a  man  who  is 
an  artist  is  constantly  endeavouring  to  bring 
those  nearest  him  into  relationship  with  the 
ideals  he  pictures  in  his  imagination.  Then, 
too,  strangely  enough,  her  wonderful  physical 

10 

145 


146  The  Angel  of  Clay 

charms,  which  he  had  dreamed  of  making  of 
such  value  to  the  world,  had  lost  their  fascin- 
ation in  a  great  measure  now  that  the  model 
was  his  own  wife,  and  he  might  call  upon  her 
at  any  moment.  He  had  that  feeling  so 
common  to  acutely  sensitive  natures,  that  re- 
alisation often  falls  immeasurably  short  of 
anticipation.  There  was  something  in  her 
voice  that  jarred  upon  him  peculiarly. 

"  Dear  God!  "  he  thought,  "  if  she  only  had 
Mabel's  voice  and  spirit,  what  a  perfect  being 
she  would  be  !  " 

It  was  strange,  now  she  was  his  wife,  how 
he  compared  her  more  and  more  with  Mabel. 
Before  his  marriage  there  had  been  only  one 
hurried,  sad  meeting  with  Mabel,  their  last  in- 
terview, when  he  had  learned  that,  go  where 
he  would  about  the  world,  and  through  all 
agonies  of  soul  and  mind  that  were  possible  to 
mankind,  the  love  of  a  pure,  noble,  brave,  con- 
sistent woman  would  follow  him  from  hence- 
forth— forever.  But  Lawrence,  in  spite  of  the 
feelings  which  passed  over  him,  as  the  light 
and  shade  pass  over  a  mill-stream  which  moves 
steadily  onward,  was  too  much  of  a  man  to  let 
his  own  temperament  dominate  his  spirit  or 
his  will.  Artist  he  was  by  birthright,  yet  he 
had  too  much  common  sense  to  attempt  like  a 
chameleon  to  change  his  colour. 

But,  as  he  expressed  it  in  his  first  interview 


The  Thorns  of  Life  147 

with  Atwood  in  his  studio,  he  was  determined 
first  of  all  to  be  a  man,  a  rational  human  being, 
fitted  to  live  at  peace  with  the  human  beings 
about  him.  After  that,  he  was  going  to  earn 
his  livelihood  by  following  out  as  rationally  as 
possible  his  profession  as  a  sculptor  —  the  gift 
which  seemed  to  be  his  highest  endowment, 
although  he  had  the  potentiality  of  doing  other 
things  well.  It  was  only  when  he  was  over- 
worked and  consequently  depressed  that  that 
feeling  made  itself  manifest  in  the  sentiments 
just  described. 

As  to  his  wife,  she  had  nothing  to  lose  and 
everything  to  gain.  She  felt  a  natural  pride 
in  holding  a  position  which  she  knew  many 
rich  and  beautiful  women  would  have  been 
glad  to  share  with  her  husband. 

It  was  some  weeks  before  any  realising  sense 
came  to  her  that  Ellerton  was  not  happy  with 
her.  Whatever  feelings  he  had,  he  concealed 
them  bravely,  and  with  the  tender  regard 
which  he  exhibited  for  all  human  kind,  both 
men  and  women. 

Atwood  came  constantly  to  the  studio,  for  he 
knew  instinctively  what  Lawrence  was  going 
through.  Indeed,  he  had  stood  out  to  the 
very  day  of  Lawrence's  marriage  against  the 
union.  But  now  that  the  marriage  had  taken 
place,  like  a  sensible  man  he  was  determined 
to  make  the  best  of  it.  To  Lawrence  his 


148  The  Angel  of  Clay 

coming  was  a  godsend.  The  first  few  weeks  of 
their  life  together,  Julia  busied  herself  about 
the  household,  and  she  made  a  vefV  practical 
housekeeper  in  spite  of  her  Bohemian  life  and 
tendencies.  This  took  up  much  of  her  time. 
They  had  moved  into  an  apartment  near  the 
studio,  that  is,  on  the  next  street  ;  and,  to- 
gether with  her  husband,  Julia  was  arranging 
it  as  best  they  could  afford. 

Old  friends  came  less  to  see  him,  thinking 
that  perhaps  they  might  intrude  on  the  newly 
married  couple.  There  were  two,  however, 
who  never  failed,  when  in  town,  to  call  upon 
Lawrence  or  to  meet  him  b}-  appointment — the 
Professor  and  Brewer.  The  coining  of  the  Pro- 
fessor was  to  Lawrence  a  spiritual  and  an  in- 
tellectual treat.  He  always  brought  with  him 
in  his  pocket  some  fine  poetry;  for  the  most 
part  it  was  Dante  or  Wordsworth  or  Tenny- 
son— but  in  the  whole  realm  of  song  he  moved 
naturally  with  easy  and  untiring  wing.  To 
hear  him  recite  Burns  was  an  inspiration 
against  many  a  sad  and  despondent  mood. 

The  Professor  was  curiously  blunt.  He  told 
someone  when  Lawrence's  proposed  marriage 
had  been  mentioned,  that  there  was  no  truth 
in  it  whatever — that  this  boy  Ellerton  was  not 
enough  of  a  fool  to  marry  any  woman,  and 
especially  this  one  who  had  no  intellectual  or 
spiritual  affinities  with  him.  He  had  never 


The  Thorns  of  Life  149 

seen  the  woman,  but  had  heard  her  spoken  of 
by  their  common  friends. 

When  he  came  to  the  studio  and  saw  I/aw- 
rence  for  the  first  time  after  his  marriage,  Julia 
opened  the  door  and  came  forward  in  such  a 
gracious  way,  saying  that  her  husband  was  in 
the  inner  studio,  that  it  quite  disarmed  the 
Professor,  and  he  finally  consented  to  take 
three  cups  of  her  tea  before  he  left  in  the  late 
afternoon.  For,  like  most  men  who  love  and 
write  true  poetry,  he  was  susceptible  to  the 
charms  of  an  attractive  woman,  but  only  in  the 
degree  in  which  spiritually  minded  men  are 
susceptible.  There  is  a  vast  difference  between 
men  of  that  order  and  men  of  the  Lord  Byron 
type.  Finally,  when  Julia  left  the  studio,  and 
the  two  men  were  together,  came  the  inevitable 
silence  which  each  was  afraid  to  break,  but  the 
heart  of  the  older  man  grew  very  full  as  he 
looked  up  and  saw  that  the  lines  had  deepened 
under  the  eyes  of  the  artist,  and  the  eyes  them- 
selves had  an  unwonted  sadness.  The  Profes- 
sor rose  from  his  chair,  and  coming  forward, 
with  his  own  eyes  filled  with  tears,  threw  his 
arms  around  the  younger  man,  saying: 

"  My  boy,  whatever  prompted  you  to  do 
this  thing,  I  know  you  meant  to  do  what  was 
right.  I  have  felt  bitterly  about  it,  but  it  is 
all  gone.  Come,  let  us  go  out  and  have  a 
glass  of  beer  together,  and  let  me  show  you 


1 50  The  Angel  of  Clay 

the  first  edition  of  my  review  of  Tennyson's 
works  and  the  philosophy  of  his  great  poem, 
which  has  just  come  to  me  from  the  press." 

The  younger  man  stopped  to  cover  carefully 
his  statue,  which  he  never  forgot,  sick  or  well, 
happy  or  sick  at  heart. 

"  There  is  a  little  beer  saloon  on  Third 
Avenue  where  I  went  with  a  friend  the  other 
day."  The  Professor  knew  where  good  beer 
was  to  be  found  ;  and  into  these  little  beer 
saloons,  the  men  who  were  the  leaders  of  po- 
litical, social,  and  religious  thought  often 
found  their  way  with  him. 


CHAPTER  II 

CLOSER  THAN  A   BROTHER 

"  I  vexed  my  heart  with  fancies  dim  : 
He  still  outstripped  me  in  the  race : 
It  was  but  unity  of  Place 
That  made  me  dream  I  ranked  with  him. 

"And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 
And  he,  the  much  beloved  again, 
A  Lord  of  large  experience,  train 
To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

"And  what  delight  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves,  but  knows  not,  reaps 
A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows  ?  " 

TENNYSON. 

TO-DAY,  fortunately,  they  encountered  no 
one,  and  the  Professor  and  Lawrence 
went  to  one  of  the  former's  favourite  rendez- 
vous. Seating  himself  at  a  deal  table,  he 
called  for  two  glasses  of  real  German  beer,  and 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  two-dollar  bill,  asking 
the  waiter  to  bring  him  his  change  in  small 
coin  ;  then  started  out  on  some  wonderful 


152  The  A  ngel  of  Clay 

philosophical  or  social  exposition,  and  as  fast  as 
the  glasses  were  exhausted,  he  would  pass  out 
the  coins  to  the  waiter  and  call  for  more  beer. 
He  preferred  doing  just  in  this  way. 

In  the  meantime,  there  were  men  of  all 
shades  of  morality  and  colour  coming  and 
going  about  him  without  affecting  him  in  the 
least  or  disturbing  him  with  his  poets  or  his 
philosophers.  Usually,  Ellerton  would  stop 
and  argue  with  him,  to  which  he  listened  pa- 
tiently— which  was  more  than  he  did  with  any 
other  living  being.  But  to-day  he  had  it  his 
own  way,  Lawrence  calmly  assenting  or  re- 
maining silent  where  he  disagreed. 

"  My  boy,  married  or  unmarried,  you  do  not 
drink  enough  beer.  If  the  doctors  tell  me  I 
should  drink  beer,  how  much  more  should  you, 
who  are  so  nervous,  and  twenty  pounds  lighter. ' ' 

Now  and  again  a  beggar  entered,  and  never 
appealed  to  the  Professor  in  vain,  although  on 
the  street  or  in  the  lecture-room  he  railed 
against  thoughtless  charity. 

There  was  one  thing  that  Lawrence  felt  as 
one  of  the  strange  compensations  which  came 
with  great  loss.  He  had  grown  closer  to  this 
man  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  That  is, 
it  seemed  as  if  they  were  nearer  of  an  age,  and 
that  all  the  marvellous  knowledge  of  this  great 
scholar  was  discounted  in  some  strange  way  by 
what  the  artist  had  given  up. 


Closer  than  a  Brother          153 

"  Dear  Maso,"  he  said  to  the  Professor, 
"  life  has  changed  yoji  much  of  Jate,  as  it  has 
changed  me." 

"  Yes,"  the  other  replied,  "  I  am  going  down 
the  shad y  side  of  the  hill." 

"  And  up,"  the  young  man  answered  back, 
"  when  the  time  comes,  upon  the  mountains 
of  eternal  light." 

The  relation  between  these  two  men  was  that 
one  which  has  been  the  poet's  theme  since  the 
beginning  of  song — which  Homer  voiced  in 
the  Iliad  when  he  made  Achilles  sorrow  for  his 
friend  Patroclus,  who  was  dead,  and  whose 
love  had  been  more  to  him  than  the  love  of 
woman.  It  was  the  love  of  David  and  Jona- 
than, of  Dante  and  Cavalcanti,  and  of  Tenny- 
son and  Hallam. 

The  Professor  was  now  fifty  and  more,  3ret 
unmarried  ;  and  although  he  was  called  the 
Professor, —  no  doubt  because  people  believed 
no  one  could  know  so  much  as  he  and  not 
be  a  professor, —  he  had  never  allowed  his 
name  to  be  used  in  connection  with  any  college 
or  university,  except  as  a  chance  lecturer  on 
philosophy  or  poetry,  his  favourite  themes. 
He  was  a  man  who  interested  all  who  met  him, 
and  who  attracted  to  himself  all  women,  and 
the  great  men  of  all  lands — a  man  made  up  of 
many  seeming  contradictions,  as  great  men 
usually  are.  No  institution  had  been  able  to 


1 54  The  Angel  of  Clay 

harness  him,  and  much  of  his  vast  knowledge 
was  still  unwritten.  The  love  of  his  life  that 
had  endured  longest  and  suffered  the  greatest 
number  of  setbacks  was  that  for  Lawrence. 

It  had  been  the  Professor's  desire  to  make  a 
poet  of  the  young  artist,  or  possibly  a  philoso- 
pher. He  had  even  offered  to  pay  the  young 
man's  expenses  abroad  if  he  would  devote  him- 
self to  poetry.  But  Lawrence,  with  all  his 
tenderness  of  heart,  was  not  one  to  let  any 
human  being  choose  for  him  in  such  matters. 
He  would  say  to  those  interested : 

"  God  has  planted  within  me  a  divine  right, 
which  I  hold  dearer  than  life,  and  that  is — the 
freedom  of  choice." 

So  the  Professor's  crowning  wish,  or  at  least 
one  very  dear  to  his  heart,  had  gotten  a  set- 
back, and  there  was  silence  for  six  months  be- 
tween these  dear  friends.  But  a  sudden  attack 
of  rheumatism,  to  which  Lawrence  was  subject, 
brought  the  Professor  over  to  the  studio  from 
his  home  in  New  Jersey  by  an  early  train,  and 
in  his  hand  he  brought  a  copy  of  the  Vita 
Nuova  of  Dante,  as  a  peace-offering. 

"  Dear  old  Maso,"  Lawrence  said  to  him, 
"  I  have  never  any  feelings  in  my  heart  for 
you  but  those  of  love  and  gratitude.  I  know 
I  am  stubborn;  but  be  patient  with  me,  and 
perhaps,  after  all,  I  may  realise  some  of  your 
hopes  for  me." 


Closer  than  a  Brother          155 

And  now,  sitting  opposite  him  at  the  table, 
drinking  his  beer,  he  thought  of  that  meeting 
and  his  words  with  sorrow,  for  again  the  old 
man  had  received  a  crowning  disappointment. 
The  Professor  had  hoped  Lawrence  would 
never  marry,  but  live  with  him  as  the  days 
went  on,  and  let  him  pass  on  his  marvellous 
book -knowledge,  to  be  embodied  in  the  poetry 
of  form.  Lawrence  felt  that  the  older  man, 
who  had  been  silent  for  some  minutes,  was 
thinking  this  very  thing,  and  he  replied  to  the 
thought: 

"  Never  mind,  Maso,"  he  said,  "  for  all 
these  disappointments  ;  we  are  getting  closer 
to  each  other  spiritually,  and  that,  after  all,  is 
the  only  lasting  relationship." 


"  But  as  to  your  art  ?  "  said  the  Professor. 
"  You  still  hold  firmly  to  your  high  ideals  ?  I 
hope  so  —  nay,  I  should  know  it.  The  age  is 
seeking  for  the  very  thing  that  it  is  the  dis- 
tinctive province  of  sculpture  to  furnish.  His- 
tory shows  that  a  love  for  the  sculpturesque — 
I  speak  not  of  rude  carving  or  imitation,  but 
of  pure  form — comes  last  in  the  history  of  de- 
velopment. Colour  is  with  us  from  our  in- 
fancy; but  the  love  of  form,  in  the  individual 
as  well  as  the  nation,  grows  only  with  the 
spiritual  life." 


1 56  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  Well,"  answered  Lawrence,  "  my  ideals 
have  strengthened  rather  than  weakened. 
In  the  main  the  conditions  of  life  with  us  are 
those  necessary  to  the  production  of  a  great  art. 
Along  with  spiritual  desire  has  sprung  up  a 
love  for  perfect  physical  development.  Ath- 
letics to-day  are  as  much  a  part  of  our  school 
and  university  life  (whether  ostensibly  included 
in  the  curriculum  or  no)  as  they  were  in  the 
palmy  days  of  Greece.  A  sound  mind  in  a 
sound  body  is  an  axiom  known  to  every  young 
American,  and  our  healthful  return  to  out-of- 
door  games  and  exercises,  and  to  suburban 
living,  is  bound  to  produce  a  finely  developed 
race  of  men  and  women.  We  are  learning  to 
look  upon  the  nude  form  in  the  way  that 
Greece  regarded  it — namely,  as  the  highest 
possible  embodiment  of  a  man's  conception 
of  love  for  ideal  beauty,  veritably  the  temple 
of  the  spirit.  When  we  learn  that  to  have  a 
beautiful  and  finely  developed  form  requires 
moderation  in  life  and  subjection  to  the  spirit- 
ual, then  shall  we  know  that  the  nude  form  is 
as  pure  as  God  made  it. ' ' 

"  Yes,"  added  the  Professor,  meditatively, 
"  one  thinks  of  poor  Heine,  dragging  himself 
with  effort  and  pain  through  the  courts  of  the 
Louvre,  along  the  corridor  and  into  the  room 
where  the  statue  of  the  Venus  of  Melos  is 
placed.  To  him  it  was  the  embodiment  of  a 


Closer  than  a  Brother          157 

sublime  morality,  which  he,  in  his  innermost 
self,  aspired  to,  but  failed  to  realise." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Law- 
rence took  up  the  thread  of  conversation 
again,  speaking  as  if  unaware  of  his  friend's 
presence : 

"  No  art  has  contributed  to  the  highest  en- 
joyment and  calm  intellectual  satisfaction,  no 
art  has  so  well  realised  man's  aspirations  for 
absolute  and  calm  beauty  as  this  great  and 
benign  art  of  sculpture.  From  it  poets  have 
drawn  their  most  exalted  images;  upon  it  they 
have  built  their  choicest  expressions.  It  has 
been  from  the  first  a  saving  grace  to  man;  its 
power  to  ennoble  and  dignify  and  exalt  is  un- 
bounded. It  is  the  central  and  most  complete 
development  that  human  life  has  ever  taken 
on.  No  one  has  ever  dared  to  attribute  to  it 
an  impure  or  unworthj'-  object.  Where  carv- 
ing has  had  an  ignoble  or  unworthy  office,  it 
has  from  its  very  purpose  and  nature  placed 
itself  without  the  domain  of  the  sculpturesque, 
and  such  effort  cannot  legitimately  be  called 
sculpture.  It  is  all  and  more  that  poets  boast 
of  it ;  the  calmest  and  simplest  of  all  the  arts, 
the  most  moderate,  the  most  holy,  the  most 
exalting,  and  the  most  enduring  of  man's 
efforts,  to  place  human  life  upon  the  plane 
which  God  originally  intended  it  to  occupy. 
More  than  all  words  of  teachers  does  it 


158  The  Angel  of  Clay 

spontaneously  show  man's  body  to  be  the  pos- 
session of  an  immortal  and  beautiful  spirit." 

"  Right  you  are,  Ellerton,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor. "  Well  does  Michelangelo,  who  knew 
it  as  well  as  anyone  who  ever  lived,  speak  of  it 
as — 

'  All  that  embellishes  and  sweetens  life, 
And  lifts  it  from  the  level  of  low  cares 
Into  the  purer  atmosphere  of  beauty.'  " 


CHAPTER  III 

DEEP  WATERS 

"  Give  sorrow  words:  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers  the  o'erfraught  heart,  and  makes  it  break." 

SHAKESPEARE. 

LAWRENCE  had  not  seen  his  mother  since 
his  marriage.  He  had  made  some  excuse 
for  not  going  out  there  after  their  short  wed- 
ding journey  to  Washington,  and  in  fact  she 
had  not  pressed  it.  Now  that  her  son  had 
done  what  she  believed  to  be  his  duty,  a  revul- 
sion had  come  over  her  nature  against  this 
woman  not  of  her  own  birth  and  education 
who  had  taken  her  beloved  son. 

Mabel  had  also  not  been  to  the  house  since 
the  marriage.  It  was  now  two  weeks;  and  the 
mother,  in  an  agony  of  remorse  and  suspense, 
sent  the  coachman  over  with  a  note,  telling 
him  to  bring  Miss  Frothingham  back  with 
him.  Mabel  put  on  her  bonnet  and  came  at 
once.  It  was  a  hard  interview  for  her,  but  it 
was  Ellerton's  mother,  and  she  went  without 
hesitation. 

159 


160  The  Angel  of  Clay 

Mrs.  Lawrence  was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the 
room  where  Ellerton  had  found  her  when  he 
came  home  determined  to  carry  out  her  wishes 
at  any  sacrifice.  She  heard  Mabel  enter,  and 
called  to  her  faintly  to  come  to  her  at  once. 
When  the  girl  reached  her  side,  the  woman 
turned  her  head  into  the  cushions  and  sobbed 
bitterly.  Mabel  bent  over  her  with  many  en- 
dearments, kissing  her  cheek  and  brow  and 
smoothing  the  hair  back  from  the  forehead 
with  its  deepening  lines. 

When  she  could  speak,  Ellerton' s  mother 
said, — 

"  My  child,  close  the  door." 

Then  she  unburdened  herself  to  Mabel  as 
she  had  spoken  to  no  human  being  since  her 
husband's  death.  With  arms  round  each 
other's  necks,  the  twilight  found  them  to- 
gether, the  one  who  had  never  been  chosen 
taking  the  place  of  the  daughter-in-law  who 
was  such  an  unwelcome  comer  into  that  house- 
hold. 

On  this  afternoon  Mabel  had  a  difficult  task. 
She  had  set  aside  her  own  heart  impulses,  and 
standing  up  with  unqualified  courage  for  El- 
lerton,  and  even  for  the  wife,  whom  she  had 
never  seen,  she  made  out  as  brave  a  case  as 
possible  for  the  distracted  mother  to  accept. 
It  was  only  when  she  had  made  the  mother  as 
comfortable  as  possible,  and  had  left  the  room, 


Deep  Waters  161 

that  she  drew  her  hands  quickly  over  her 
eyes  and  passed  hastily  down  the  wide  colonial 
staircase,  and  out  of  the  hall  door  under  the 
porch  and  down  the  elm  row.  Alone  in  the 
dusk,  the  girl's  heart  could  have  its  way,  and 
the  tears  came  without  restraint,  and  when 
anyone  was  discernible  through  the  dusk,  she 
turned  hastily  aside  so  as  to  be  alone  with  her 
grief. 

We  men  are  apt  to  think  that  women  are 
slight,  fickle  creatures,  not  fitted  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  sorrow  or  the  burden  of  a  great  grief. 
And  yet,  if  the  truth  were  only  known,  for 
every  truly  courageous  man  in  this  world,  you 
would  find  a  score  of  self-sacrificing  women. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN  AWKWARD  SITUATION 

"The  divine  insanity  of  noble  minds, 
That  never  falters  or  abates, 
But  labours,  and  endures  and  waits 
Till  all  that  it  foresees,  it  finds, 

And  what  it  cannot  find — creates  ! " 

LONGFEI/I.OW. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE  had  decided  to  go  to 
New  York,  at  Mabel's  suggestion,  and 
to  take  Mabel  with  her.  They  were  to  stay  at 
a  hotel  near  the  studio.  L,awrence  met  them 
at  the  station  when  they  arrived,  and  tried  to 
appear  as  much  his  old  self  as  possible,  show- 
ing his  mother  all  the  tender  courtesies  he  was 
wont  to  do,  and  inquiring  of  Mabel  particularly 
for  his  dear  friend  the  rector. 

In  the  commotion  of  the  arrival  and  the  din  of 
the  hotel,  nothing  more  than  passing  inquiries 
were  made  by  his  mother,  and  the  subject  of 
Ellerton's  wife  was  not  brought  forward,  more 
than  a  courteous  message  from  her.  Mabel 
made  some  pleasant  reference  to  the  attractive 
home  she  had  heard  Julia  was  making  for 
162 


An  Awkward  Situation         163 

Bllerton  ;  and  he  knew  at  once  that  she  had  ac- 
cepted the  situation  as  she  had  accepted  all  of 
life's  crucifixions — with  faith  and  trust. 

They  were  to  visit  the  studio  on  the  next 
afternoon,  resting  on  the  following  morning 
from  the  journey.  Julia  came  early  to  arrange 
some  tea-things  and  to  put  the  place  in  better 
order,  for  Lawrence  had  of  late  grown  more 
careless  about  his  books  and  belongings.  She 
had  gone  out  at  the  moment  they  had  entered 
to  buy  a  few  flowers  to  make  the  place  bright 
for  their  coming. 

Mabel  found  the  studio  without  trouble,  and 
pushing  the  door  open — it  was  standing  ajar — 
entered.  Ellerton  was  busy,  and  did  not  see 
them  until  Mabel's  voice  startled  him  from  his 
work.  He  turned  around  and  came  forward, 
kissed  his  mother  upon  her  brow,  taking  Mabel 
warmly  by  the  hand. 

"  This  is  my  workshop,  mother,  dear,  and 
here  is  my  family,  such  as  it  is — you  see  it  in- 
cludes all  kinds.  I  am  a  true  Catholic.  I  am 
glad  you  find  it  interesting,"  he  went  on,  "  for 
it  is  here  I  pass  most  of  my  hours,  and  it  is 
here  I  think  very  often  of  you." 

There  was  a  face  that  had  attracted  Mabel 
peculiarly,  half  hidden  behind  a  canvas  and  by 
a  cloth  that  had  fallen  over  it.  She  called  Mrs. 
Lawrence's  attention  to  it. 

"  What  superb  colouring!  "  she  exclaimed. 


1 64  The  Angel  of  Clay 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Lawrence,  "  but  not 
the  face  of  an  angel,  my  child." 

Lawrence  turned  at  this,  and  saw  them  look- 
ing at  the  Sappho  picture  for  which  Julia  had 
posed,  and  which  Atwood  had  given  to  Law- 
rence after  it  had  been  exhibited  at  the  Acad- 
emy, because  he  particularly  desired  to  own 
it. 

They  were  looking  about  when  Julia  entered 
quite  suddenly,  and,  finding  them  there  before 
her,  drew  back  abashed. 

"  This,"  Ellerton  said  rather  stiffly,  in  spite 
of  every  effort,  "  is  my  wife — Mrs.  Lawrence." 

"  I  am  very  "  — the  word  came  slowly,  and 
she  rose  from  her  chair  and  came  a  step  for- 
ward— "  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mrs. " 

"Julia,"  interposed  Ellerton. 

"Julia,"  the  mother  repeated  very  awk- 
wardly, "  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you." 

The  girl  made  no  attempt  to  do  more  than 
shake  the  woman's  hand,  and  the  mother  did 
not  invite  any  further  caress,  but  sank  slowly 
back  into  the  arm-chair,  and  dropped  her  head 
upon  her  gloved  hand.  Mabel,  on  the  other 
hand,  came  forward,  and  throwing  her  veil 
aside,  said: 

"  I  must  kiss  your  wife,  Ellerton,  for  she  is 
very  dear  to  me  ;  I  have  known  Ellerton  so 
long,  you  see,"  she  said  to  Julia. 

"  Yes,"   Julia   repeated,    looking  her  over 


An  A wkwa rd  Situu tion         1 6 5 

from  head  to  foot,  "  I  would  know  you  from 
your  picture  in  the  album."  But  to  herself 
she  said, — 

"He  was  right  in  choosing  her  face  for  the 
angel";  and  bitterly  she  thought,  "I  can 
never  look  like  that." 

It  was  not  in  Julia's  nature  to  allow  her 
physical  well-being  to  be  disturbed  long  by 
anything  or  anybody,  and  if  Mrs.  Lawrence 
did  not  care  to  make  any  advances,  she  was 
not  going  to  be  attentive  to  her.  So  the  after- 
noon passed  in  a  disjointed  and  strained  man- 
ner, and  all  parties  were  glad  when  the  first 
shadows  began  to  fall,  and  there  was  an  excuse 
for  breaking  up.  The  mother,  as  she  turned 
to  go,  held  her  right  hand  out  stiffly. 

Julia  took  her  hand,   saying: 

"  Good-night,  Mrs.  Lawrence.  I  am  glad 
you  like  Ellerton's  studio." 

Mabel  covered  the  embarrassment  as  best 
she  could,  by  again  kissing  Julia,  and  asking 
her  to  call  upon  them  to-morrow  at  the  hotel. 

Lawrence  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  back 
with  them,  kissed  his  mother  good-night,  and 
came  back  with  a  heavy  heart  to  the  studio,  to 
find  it  empty  —  and  on  the  door  a  note,  in  the 
rather  strained  hand  of  one  not  accustomed  to 
write,  telling  him  that  his  wife  had  promised 
to  take  tea  with  a  lady  in  a  neighbouring 
street  who  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  asking 


1 66  The  A  ngel  of  Clay 

him  not  to  worry  about  her,  for  she  would 
come  home  early  with  the  brother  of  the 
lady. 

He  was  thankful  for  anything  at  this  moment 
that  left  him  alone  in  his  workshop. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  STRANGE   FATE 

"  Then  to  side  with  truth  is  noble — 

When  we  share  her  wretched  crust — 
Ere  her  cause  bring  Fame  and  Profit 
And  't  is  prosperous  to  be  just." 

LOWELL. 

IT  was  Atwood's  quick  knock  which  startled 
Ellerton  at  his  work  in  the  early  morning, 
and  he  turned  to  let  him  in,  wondering  why 
the  fellow  had  come  at  this  hour. 

"  Ellerton,  you  will  think  I  am  an  early  bird 
to-day.  I  have  brought  a  canvas  and  a  lot  of 
stuff,  and  I  am  going  to  paint  like  a  beggar  all 
the  morning.  Somehow,  I  can  work  in  this 
place  better  than  I  can  in  my  own  studio.  It 
inspires  me,  the  mottoes,  the  statues,  and  the 
old  casts.  That  one  of  the  old  Moses  over 
there,  and  the  thoughtful  Lorenzo  from  the 
Medici  chapel,  and  more  than  all,  which  is 
natural  to  me  as  a  painter,  this  marvellous 
painting  by  Murillo  which  Mrs.  Schuyler  has 
left  you.  What  an  inspiring  picture  !  Dear 
167 


1 68  The  Angel  of  Clay 

boy,  it  is  worth  while  living  in  such  company 
as  this.  Outside  the  world  is  beginning  to 
hurry  about,  buying  and  selling,  in  order  to 
make  a  few  extra  sous,  imagining  that  their 
hurry  is  going  to  make  them  happier,  while  in 
truth  it  only  shortens  their  lives — and  here  we 
are,  Lawrence,  lucky  dogs,  fortunate  fellows, 
sitting  here  in  the  quiet,  a  pipe  close  at  hand, 
—  pardon  me,  if  I  fill  this  one," — suiting  the 
action  to  the  words, — "  and  all  about  us  these 
inspiring  influences.  For  all  our  struggle  and 
poverty  abroad,  we  have  enough  to  be  thankful 
for  ;  is  it  not  so,  old  chap  ?  ' ' 

Ellerton  nodded  ;  he  was  not  in  a  talkative 
mood  to-day.  He  was  filled  with  the  spirit  of 
the  great  man's  face,  over  which  he  continued 
to  bend  and  work. 

"  Atwood,  I  have  been  reading  the  writings 
of  this  great  preacher,  whom  I  knew,  as  I  have 
told  you,  and  the  thought  comes  to  me  con- 
stantly, that  like  all  great  men,  he  was  much 
beyond  his  church  and  time.  Mark  you  these 
words  which  I  found  in  one  of  his  essays  this 
morning:  '  May  God  give  us  grace  and  faith 
and  courage  and  ambition,  always,  to  be  ready 
to  pass  up  and  on  to  higher  kinds  of  life,  to 
new  kingdoms  of  heaven,  as  He  shall  open 
them  to  us  for  ever.'  That 's  the  thought  that 
helps  mankind.  Now,  tell  me,  Atwood,  what 
they  would  add  to  such  a  man  in  making  him  a 


A  Strange  Fate  169 

bishop  ?  As  you  say,  old  fellow,  we  have  much 
to  be  thankful  for,  and  I  have  had  a  stroke  of 
luck  since  you  have  been  here.  Some  one  has 
given  me  a  commission  for  a  statue  of  Lincoln, 
and  I  have  been  turning  over  his  biography 
and  his  speeches.  Can  you  imagine  anything 
more  simply  and  more  tersely  grand  than  his 
Gettysburg  speech  ?  If  you  do  not  recall  it,  let 
me  read  it  to  you  : 

' '  '  Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago,  our  fathers 
brought  forth  on  this  continent  a  new  nation, 
conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  pro- 
position that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now 
we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing 
whether  that  nation  or  any  nation  so  conceived 
and  so  dedicated  can  long  endure.  We  are  met 
on  a  great  battle-field  of  that  war ;  we  have  come 
to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field  as  a  final  rest- 
ing-place for  those  who  have  given  their  lives 
that  their  nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether 
fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this.  But 
in  a  larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot 
consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow  this  ground.  The 
brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled 
here  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our  power 
to  add  or  to  detract.  The  world  will  little  note 
or  remember  what  we  say  here,  but  can  never 
forget  what  they  did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the 
living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  un- 
finished work  which  they  who  fought  here  have 


1 70  The  Angel  of  Clay 

thus  so  nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to 
be  here  dedicated  to  the  task  remaining  before 
us.  That  from  these  honoured  dead,  we  take 
increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which  they 
gave  the  last  full  measure  of  their  devotion, — 
that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead 
shall  not  have  died  in  vain, —  that  this  nation, 
under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom, 
—  and  that  government  of  the  people,  by  the 
people,  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the 
earth. '  I  learned  this  as  a  boy  and  have  never 
forgotten  it." 

Atwood  laid  aside  his  brushes  and  listened. 
Whenever  Lawrence  read  or  recited,  he  stopped 
painting  and  listened.  Lawrence  had  a  gift  of 
holding  the  attention  of  those  about  him  when 
he  cared  to  do  so.  Some  people  call  it  a  mag- 
netic force,  but  it  was  nothing  else  than  a  gen- 
uine enthusiasm  for  the  poetry  or  prose  he  was 
reciting. 

"  I  can  think  only  of  one  thing,"  Atwood  re- 
plied, "  that  is  comparable  to  that  Gettysburg 
speech.  It  is  the  epitaph  that  Leonidas  left  at 
the  Pass  of  Thermopylae  : 

'Go,  tell  at  Sparta,  thou  that  passes!  by, 
That  here,  obedient  to  her  laws,  we  lie.' 

This  is  perhaps  too  terse  for  the  modern  man, 
and  Lincoln  knew  this  or  he  would  have  cut 
his  Gettysburg  speech  down  to  two  lines ; 


A  Strange  Fate  171 

but  for  the  self-contained  and  well-balanced 
Greek  temperament  these  two  lines  embrace 
all  that  could  be  said  on  the  subject." 

' '  Yes, ' '  Lawrence  reiterated,  ' '  and  how  true 
that  is  of  all  Greek  art.  The  perfect  sanity 
and  conciseness  of  expression, — something  to 
say  and  the  honesty  and  wisdom  with  which  to 
say  it.  The  two  things  that  make  up  all  hu- 
man expression." 

"  Now,  to  stop  your  moralising,  Lawrence," 
Atwood  broke  in  abruptly,  "  I  have  news  for 
you  of  two  old  friends  of  yours. ' ' 

' '  Old  friends  ? ' '  said  Lawrence ;  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  Connoyer  came  home  from  Europe 
yesterday. ' ' 

' '  What  !  Connoyer  home  ?  ' '  interposed 
Lawrence. 

' '  And  he  told  me  a  strange  story  of  your  old 
friend  Perry,  who  went  to  the  dogs, —  though 
you  would  never  allow  it, —  and  his  connection 
with  that  girl  in  the  Latin  Quarter  whom  the 
fellows  remember  as  having  such  a  beautiful 
voice." 

Lawrence  was  all  attention ;  he  even  assumed 
a  little  careless  air,  feeling  that  his  interest 
might  be  too  palpable  to  Atwood.  Curious, 
how  the  name  of  that  beautiful  singer  called  up 
in  him  strange  scenes  of  happiness! 

"  Well,  it  seems,"  Atwood  went  on,"  that  the 
beautiful  singer,  as  she  is  called,  was  singing 


172  The  Angel  of  Clay 

in  Milan,  in  La  Sonnambula,  and  the  Prince  del 
Drago  was  present  in  his  box,  whether  under 
the  influence  of  wine  or  not  we  shall  never 
know,  but  in  the  sleep-walking  scene,  where 
Amina  enters  in  a  night-garment,  he  made 
some  demonstration,  and  ogled  her  so  with  his 
glasses,  that  in  her  confusion  she  dropped  the 
candle  and,  dismayed  at  this  accident,  fled  from 
the  stage  ;  at  which  a  gentleman  in  the  audi- 
ence arose,  walked  across  the  parquet  to  the 
Prince's  loge,  and,  it  is  said,  told  him,  so  that 
all  could  hear,  that  no  one  but  a  '  cur '  would 
insult  a  woman  in  that  way.  Whereat  the 
Prince  made  some  reply  which  enraged  the 
gentleman,  who,  it  seems,  was  an  American. 
The  latter,  placing  his  hand  on  the  balustrade 
of  the  box,  without  great  effort  vaulted  in  and 
stood  before  the  Prince.  The  Prince  repeated 
the  words  he  had  before  said,  at  the  same  time 
reaching  for  some  weapon  he  had  concealed  in 
the  inside  pocket  of  his  dress  suit.  Before  the 
audience  could  realise  what  had  happened,  the 
stranger  struck  the  Prince  a  blow  in  the  face, 
which  knocked  him  to  the  front  of  the  box,  and 
as  he  fell  he  struck  his  head  against  the  bronze 
balustrade  and  lost  consciousness. 

"  To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  Prince 
died  of  brain  fever  within  a  week  from  the  time 
of  the  encounter,  and  the  American  was  arrested 
on  a  charge  of  murder.  Strangely  enough,  the 


A  Strange  Fate  1 73 

beautiful  singer,  when  she  heard  the  story, 
went  to  the  prison  to  see  the  man  who  had 
risked  his  life  to  resent  an  insult  to  her,  and 
succeeded  finally  in  obtaining  a  pardon  for  him, 
and,  what  is  more  strange  than  anything  else, 
soon  married  him." 

Lawrence  listened  attentively  to  the  whole 
story,  and  when  Atwood  got  to  the  part  where 
the  singer  married  this  strange  American,  he 
broke  in  suddenly,  exclaiming, — 

"  Married  him  ?  "  and  showed  more  emotion 
than  Atwood  could  account  for. 

"  Yes,  married  him.  But  that  is  not  all. 
That  American  was — Ellerton,  can  you  believe 
it  —  your  old  friend  Perry,  the  gambler." 

Lawrence  drew  his  eyes  together  at  the  last 
words,  saying, — 

"  Atwood,  your  way  of  putting  things  is  a 
little  too  strong." 

"  You  will  not  think  so,"  Atwood  responded, 
"  when  you  have  heard  the  sequel  to  the  mar- 
riage. Perry  received  with  the  beautiful  singer 
the  large  fortune  her  voice  had  won  for  her. 
He  had  scarcely  been  married  one  week,  when 
the  old  fever  took  possession  of  him  and  he  left 
Milan,  where  she  had  been  singing,  for  Monte 
Carlo.  There  he  played  desperately  and  lost 
every  sou  that  belonged  to  his  wife.  He  was 
ashamed  to  meet  her, —  I  am  glad  there  were 
some  traces  of  manliness  left  in  him, —  and 


1 74  The  Angel  of  Clay 

shot  himself  in  a  room  at  the  hotel.  All  that 
is  sad  enough,"  Atwood  continued, — Lawrence 
made  no  comment, — "  but  to  me  what  now 
comes  is  the  most  tragic  part  of  the  story.  The 
killing  off  of  an  Italian  prince  and  an  American 
gambler  did  not  leave  the  world  much  worse 
off,  but  the  beautiful  singer,  when  she  heard 
of  her  husband's  death,  left  the  stage  for  ever, 
and  entered  some  sisterhood  somewhere,  I  can- 
not remember  the  place." 

After  Atwood  had  finished  his  story  he  be- 
came so  interested  in  his  painting  that  he  did 
not  note  Lawrence  setting  aside  his  own  tools 
and  giving  himself  up  to  his  thoughts.  What 
a  world  of  inconsistencies!  the  sculptor  thought. 
This  beautiful  singer,  whose  rare,  sweet  voice 
had  been  an  inspiration  to  him  when  despond- 
ent and  alone  and  almost  ready  to  succumb  to 
the  alluring  life  of  Paris,  this  woman  had  come 
with  saving  grace  to  him  and  then  had  entered 
into  the  most  sacred  relationship  with  a  man 
who  had  lived  with  fast  women  the  world  over. 
His  thoughts  went  back  to  the  old  garden  in 
Italy  and  the  nightingale  which  had  sung  there 
in  the  early  mornings.  He  remembered  awaking 
late,  startled  at  not  hearing  the  morning  song. 
Surprised  and  disappointed,  he  walked  out  into 
the  garden,  and,  pushing  shrubbery  aside, 
found  her  nest  had  been  spoiled  and  her  little 
ones  thrown  rudely  upon  the  ground.  The  old 


A  Strange  Fate  1 75 

Gothic  palace  seemed  so  gloomy  and  prison- 
like  after  this  event  that  he  could  not  stand 
the  place,  and  quitted  Siena  for  Florence.  He 
connected  this  human  nightingale  with  the 
bird,  and  indeed,  their  lives  had  suffered  almost 
the  same  strange  tragedy. 

Atwood  still  painted  hard  as  the  morning 
wore  on,  and  Lawrence  pursued,  without  speak- 
ing, the  mysterious  history  of  human  life  which 
surprised  him  at  every  turning.  Suddenly 
Atwood  stopped  and  threw  down  his  brushes. 

' '  Lawrence, ' '  he  said,  ' '  you  have  heard  one 
tragedy.  Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  another 
—  one  that  touches  me  more  closely  and  which 
I  believe  may  affect  you  quite  as  seriously  as 
the  first.  I  am  a  plain,  blunt  fellow,  and  I  must 
come  out  with  this  history,  difficult  as  it  is,  as 
bluntly  as  I  do  with  other  things.  You  know 
Mabel  Frothingham  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  did,"  Lawrence  replied. 

"  Well,"  Atwood  continued,  "  I  —  hang  it 
all,  what  is  the  matter  with  my  tongue  ? — Law- 
rence, I  love  her." 

Lawrence  turned  to  his  friend,  saying: — 

"  So  you  once  told  me." 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  to  make  her  my  wife." 

1 '  Why,  you  have  never  seen  her  but  a  half- 
dozen  times  in  your  life  !  " 

:<  That  does  not  signify,  Lawrence.  There 
are  divine  things  I  have  never  seen  at  all,  and 


1 76  The  Angel  of  Clay 

yet  I  love  them  instinctively.  I  saw  her  through 
your  eyes,  first,  when  you.  described  her  to  me, 
when  we  were  together  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 
The  character  you  pictured,  so  simple  and  holy, 
helped  to  make  a  man  of  me,  while  you  con- 
fessed it  was  a  saving  grace  to  you.  Lawrence, 
I  began  to  love  her  then.  I  saw  her  first  at 
your  home  one  summer  evening,  and  her  songs 
laid  hold  upon  my  heart  with  peculiar  tender- 
ness. I  met  her  again  this  spring  when  she 
came  to  see  you  with  your  mother.  Now,  Law- 
rence, are  you  going  to  help  me  in  my  suit  ?  ' ' 

Lawrence  replied  sadly  : 

"  Dear  Atwood,  I  will  help  you  in  any  way 
I  can,  you  know  that."  The  problem  was  too 
serious  for  quick  solution,  and  this  answer,  if 
it  seemed  evasive,  was  the  kindest  one  he  could 
make. 

"  Ellerton,  no  one  can  help  me  as  much  as 
you  can.  She  has  been  like  a  sister  to  you 
from  your  childhood." 

"  Yes,"  Lawrence  replied  slowly,  "  she  has 
been  a  sister  to  me,  and  more  than  a  sister,  At- 
wood, and  that  is  the  reason  I  am  thinking  so 
seriously  when  you  ask  me  to  give  her  up  to 
you  in  marriage,  even  though  you  are  my  best 
friend.  Make  yourself  at  home  about  this 
place.  I  am  not  well  this  morning.  There  is 
a  sickness  about  my  heart.  I  do  not  know 
what  it  means,  but  I  must  get  out  into  the  air. 


A  Strange  Fate  177 

I  '11  be  back  in  an  hour  or  so.  Throw  a  little 
water  on  that  clay  from  time  to  time — that 's  a 
good  fellow." 

And   Lawrence  rushed   out  of  his  studio, 
catching  up  his  hat  and  stick  in  his  flight. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  ANGEL'S  FACE 

"Count  me  o'er  Earth's  chosen  heroes — 
They  were  men  who  stood  alone." 

L0WXEJU 

POOR  boy!"  Atwood  said  to  himself, 
when  L,awrence  had  departed,  "  he  is 
trying  to  put  a  brave  face  on  this  marriage  of 
his,  but  I  can  see  that  the  gray  hairs  are  com- 
ing here  and  there,  and  that  the  lines  under 
his  eyes  have  deepened  since  last  year.  Now,  if 
Perry  had  married  Miss  Hartmann,  and  Law- 
rence had  married  the  sweet  singer,  all  would 
have  gone  well,  and  like  a  play  on  the  modern 
stage.  But  the  actual  drama  of  human  life  is 
not  at  all  theatrical.  I  am  afraid  we  could  not 
stand  the  theatres  if  they  presented  veritable 
scenes  from  real  life  upon  the  boards.  In  life 
the  unexpected  is  always  turning  up.  The  vil- 
lain marries  the  heroine,  and  the  hero  marries 
the  maid,  and  everything  is  topsy-turvy." 

He  had  scarcely  finished  these  words  when 
the  door  opened  noiselessly,  and  there  entered 
178 


The  Angel V  Face  179 

one  who  had  just  been  in  his  thoughts,  namely, 
Julia. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Atwood  ;  I  do  not 
think  I  have  called  you  Jack  since  my  mar- 
riage." 

"  You  can  call  me  anything  that  EHerton 
likes,"  Atwood  replied,  with  more  feeling 
than  the  occasion  seemed  to  warrant. 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  my  posing  for 
your  Sappho,  Mr.  Atwood  ?  " 

"  No,"  Atwood  replied  ;  "  you  were  very 
patient  with  my  poor  painting  in  those  days." 

' '  Jack, ' '  she  now  ventured  to  call  him,  ' '  I 
have  a  bone  to  pick  with  you.  We  understand 
each  other  quite  well  in  spite  of  your  new 
dignity.  You  never  fell  in  love  with  me  when 
other  artists  did,  and  I  think  I  was  just  a  little 
piqued  with  you  for  not  doing  so." 

"  Well,"  Atwood  rejoined,  "  you  have  mar- 
ried, finally,  a  much  better  man  than  I." 

"  But  you  did  not  say  anything  about  — 
love,"  she  interrupted.  She  was  endeavour- 
ing to  make  him  confess  some  possible  confid- 
ence L,awrence  might  have  made  to  him. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Lawrence,  love  and  marriage  are 
not  always  one  and  the  same  thing." 

A  little  bitterness  had  crept  into  his  tone  as 
he  thought  of  Mrs.  Schuyler  and  how  her  plans 
had  failed. 

"  Now,  Jack,"  she  went  on,  "joking  aside, 


1 80  The  Angel  of  Clay 

you  have  noticed  that  Ellerton  is  not  happy  in 
this  life  with  me." 

"  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,"  Atwood 
replied.  What  else  could  he  say  ?  "  Law- 
rence was  never  happy  any  length  of  time  be- 
fore he  married  you," — he  might  have  said 
this  of  any  one, — "  and  if  I  may  be  excused 
the  impertinence,  why  should  he  be  everlast- 
ingly smiling  because  he  has  found  a  pretty 
woman  for  his  wife  ?  ' ' 

"  That  was  very  prettily  said,  Jack,"  Mrs. 
Lawrence  replied,  "but  I  wish  —  and  it  is 
scarcely  a  year  since  we  were  married — I  wish 
— sometimes  —  the  thing  were  undone." 

' '  Too  late  for  such  wishes, ' '  Atwood  inter- 
posed with  a  serious  look. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  ever  too  late  to 
correct  a  mistake, ' '  she  said  sadly. 

Her  heart  rose  a  little.  ' '  For  all  your  friend- 
ship, you  do  not  know  him  as  intimately  as  I," 
she  said ;  ' '  and  yet  he  never  reveals  the  things 
dearest  to  him  to  —  anyone." 

Atwood  looked  at  her  and  thought  : 

"  You  are  more  of  a  philosopher,  pretty  Julia, 
than  I  gave  you  credit  for." 

She  looked  beautiful  indeed,  this  morning. 
There  was  a  tinge  of  sadness  that  softened  the 
satisfied,  healthful  roundness  of  her  face.  This 
woman,  also,  in  her  turn,  was  beginning  to 
realise  that  there  was  something  in  this  world 


The  A  ngel  's  Face  1 8 1 

she  could  not  have  for  the  asking — something 
she  could  not  buy  with  her  great  beauty. 

"  It  worries  me,"  she  went  on,  "  to  think 
that  Kllerton  does  not  go  more  into  society. 
Before  he  married  me — you  will  remember — he 
went  everywhere.  To  be  sure  he  is  willing 
enough  to  go  to  the  theatre  when  I  ask  it,  but 
when  we  are  invited  to  the  houses  of  his  old 
friends,  he  seems  always  to  have  an  excuse,  no 
matter  how  reasonable  it  may  seem.  The 
other  night  we  were  asked  to  dine  with  the 
Hales,  friends  of  his  mother's.  He  wrote  word 
that  he  was  utterly  worn  out,  and  yet  an  hour 
afterwards  he  took  me  to  the  theatre." 

Atwood  understood  it  all.  Notwithstanding 
her  handsome  looks,  this  woman  could  not  go 
into  the  society  of  cultured  people  without 
making  her  husband  feel  uncomfortable.  She 
was  sure  to  make  some  faux  pas,  even  though 
of  no  serious  character.  She  wras  always  well- 
dressed —  if  anything  a  little  overdressed;  that 
is,  her  dress  would  be  cut  a  little  low  in  the 
neck,  or  of  a  colour  too  startling  for  perfect 
taste. 

Atwood  could  see  it  all  in  his  mind's  eye, 
and  he  knew  just  what  Mrs.  Hale,  brought  up 
to  all  that  is  refined  and  gentle,  would  say  to 
this  woman.  In  fact,  he  had  been  present 
somewhere  at  an  evening  reception  where  I/aw- 
rence  had  taken  his  wife  in  the  first  month  of 


1 8  2  The  A  ngel  of  Clay 

their  married  life,  and  he  had  heard  one  artist 
say  to  another  : 

"  They  say  that  girl  has  the  most  stunning 
figure  in  town.  By  Jove !  I  would  like  to  have 
her  sit  for  me." 

Lawrence  was  standing  close  by,  and  Atwood 
was  afraid  he  had  overheard  it,  but  fortunately 
it  was  not  so.  Wherever  they  went  to  dinners, 
there  was  something  done  or  said  to  make  the 
man  feel  uncomfortable.  She  was  not  disturbed 
in  the  least.  If  any  lady  offered  her  a  slight, 
why,  she  would  smile  at  the  woman's  husband, 
and  would  be  sure  to  win  some  compliment 
from  him  that  would  more  than  return  the  wo- 
man's injury  to  her.  It  was  very  hard  to  dis- 
turb Julia's  sangfroid,  and  there  was  very  little 
in  this  world  that  she  was  afraid  of,  and  not 
much  that  she  respected,  except,  perhaps,  the 
power  to  make  one's  way,  and  her  own  hus- 
band. For  him  she  had  the  respect  of  one 
being  for  another  of  a  higher  order.  His  gen- 
tleness and  his  courtly  ways  to  her  had  been 
different  from  the  cheap  flattery  and  praise  of 
most  men.  He  had  treated  her  with,  and  still 
showed  her,  the  courtesies  that  he  extended  to 
women  of  his  own  birth  and  environment. 
But  there  was  something,  and  she  could  not 
account  for  it,  that  was  lacking.  She  knew 
her  husband  was  proud  of  her  wonderful  phy- 
sique, her  neck  and  arms,  her  radiant  hair,  and 


The  Angel's  Face  183 

her  splendid  figure.  She  had  heard  him  once 
telling  someone  in  the  studio,  as  she  came  in, 
that  his  wife  was  the  handsomest  woman  in 
many  respects  he  had  ever  seen.  There  was 
a  time  when  this  would  have  made  her  su- 
premely happy ;  when,  among  all  the  gifts  of 
this  world,  she  would  have  placed  this  first.  But 
the  association  with  Lawrence,  his  poets,  his 
thoughts,  and  his  friends  had  made  her  restless, 
for  she  realised  that  they  had  ideals  that  were 
higher  than  mere  physical  beauty,  although 
most  of  them  held  this  a  crowning  charm.  The 
Good  Physician  had  asked  her  to  go  with  him 
one  morning  to  St.  John's  Hospital,  and  had 
taken  her  through  the  children's  ward.  There 
she  had  seen  a  Sister  of  Charity,  whose  face, 
strangely  enough,  reminded  her  of  the  angel's 
face  in  the  photograph  book,  who-  was  passing 
from  one  cot  to  another,  ministering  to  the 
wants  of  these  crippled  and  diseased  little  ones. 
She  overheard  one  child  say  to  another  : 

"  See  what  a  beautiful  lady."  And  the 
other  said  : 

"  She  is  not  as  pretty  as  our  Sister,  and  see, 
— she  don't  hug  none  of  us  and  kiss  us  as  Sister 
Alice  does." 

Strange,  she  did  not  like  children;  she  could 
not  bear  to  have  them  crawl  over  her,  she  said. 

All  the  time  her  thoughts  were  going  on, 
Atwood  was  busy  with  his  painting,  and 


1 84  The  Angel  of  Clay 

disturbed  with  thoughts  of  Mabel  and  of  Law- 
rence's disjointed  union.  Julia  was  determined 
to  get  the  reason  from  Atwood,  if  possible, — 
if  there  was  a  reason, —  why  Lawrence  did  not 
take  her  among  his  friends,  and  why  Law- 
rence's mother  never  invited  her  to  the  home, 
unless  to  come  down  there  with  Ellerton  for  a 
visit.  She  had  seen  no  girls  yet  who  were 
more  beautiful  than  she  in  his  set.  She  could 
speak  a  little  Italian  and  had  even  a  smattering 
of  French.  She  knew  she  hated  books,  and 
thought  that  while  men  could  buy  jewelry  it 
seemed  ridiculous  to  lumber  up  the  place  with 
books.  Finally  she  determined  to  come  out 
and  put  the  question  point-blank. 

"  What  is  there  about  me,  Jack,  that  is  not 
equal  to — let  us  say — that  woman,  whose  face 
is  in  the  photograph  album  here  ?  " 

"Which  one  ?  "  said  Atwood  turning  quickly. 

"  This  one,"  and  she  went  to  the  book  and 
took  the  photograph  of  Mabel  Frothingham 
from  its  place. 

"  That  ?  You  are  no  more  like  that,"  Jack 
blurted  out,  forgetting  himself,  "  than  the 
darkness  is  like  the  daylight  !  " 

He  realised  that  he  had  made  a  mistake 
almost  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  retrieve  it  now.  The  woman,  in 
spite  of  her  rather  stolid  nature,  was  stunned, 
and  she  kept  repeating  his  words  to  herself — 


The  Angel's  Face  185 

' '  No  more  like  that  face  than  darkness  is  to 
daylight." 

She  thought  how  she  hated  the  darkness, 
and  how  she  loved  the  light.  The  blood 
mounted  to  her  cheeks  and  was  throbbing  in 
her  forehead.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  with  her 
mother's  temper  swelling  in  her  veins,  and  with 
the  sense  of  an  insult — the  keener  because  she 
did  not  understand  it.  An  insult  which  she 
could  not  answer,  because  she  had  invited  it. 
She  stood  looking  Atwood  in  the  face,  erect  and 
with  flashing  eyes,  like  some  beautiful  demon, 
saying  through  her  teeth, — 

"  I  will  pay  you  back  for  this  insult." 

She  swept  out  of  the  studio,  slammed  the 
door,  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  VII 

•  THE   RETURN  OP  ULYSSES 

"  Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be  ; 
Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood  ; 
Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good, 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

"  And  thou  art  worthy  ;  full  of  power  ; 
As  gentle ;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent ;  wearing  all  that  weight 
Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower." 

TENNYSON. 

IT  was  early  one  December  morning,  six  years 
after  Lawrence's  marriage,  that  Brewer 
was  leaving  the  office  of  his  newspaper  for 
lunch,  when  he  ran  into  someone  hastening  in 
an  opposite  direction.  He  looked  up,  saying, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  and  was  astounded 
to  meet  the  eyes  of  his  old  friend  the  Pro- 
fessor, who  had  just  returned  from  a  voyage  to 
Greece. 

"  Dear  old  friend,"   he  said,  throwing  his 
arms  about  him,  a  greeting  warmly  returned 
by  the  enthusiastic  traveller;  "dear  old  friend," 
1 86 


The  Return  of  Ulysses          187 

he  repeated,  "  come  into  a  restaurant  with  me 
and  tell  me  something  of  yourself  and  your 
travels." 

After  a  few  words  recalling  old  times  and 
the  new  discoveries  lately  made  in  Athens,  the 
Professor  asked  with  affectionate  concern  for 
the  latest  news  of  their  mutual  friend,  Ellerton. 

"  Poor  Ellerton  !  "  Brewer  responded,  "  he 
has  changed  not  a  little  since  you  left  America, 
—  two  years  ago,  is  it  not  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  about  two  years,"  the  Professor  re- 
plied, while  his  face  showed  an  expression  of 
pain.  He  was  thinking  of  the  Ellerton  whom 
he  had  loved  from  his  boyhood  and  who  was 
dearer  to  him  now  than  even  his  philosophy. 
Brewer  noticed  that  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"You  say  that  he  has  changed,"  the  Pro- 
fessor remarked  softly;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  Brewer  went  on,  "  that  he  is  no 
longer  the  happy-hearted  fellow  we  knew  six 
years  ago.  A  moralist  would  say  that  the 
change  has  been  for  the  better,  but  for  my 
part,  he  was  good  enough  in  the  old  days  for 
me,  and  to  see  his  face,  which  bears  at  times 
the  traces  of  an  inward  suffering,  gives  me  a 
heartache." 

"  You  refer,  I  suppose,"  the  Professor  re- 
marked abstractedly,  ' '  to  his  marriage,  and  its 
effect  upon  him." 


1 88  The  A  ngel  of  Clay 

"  Yes,"  Brewer  replied  ;  "it  is  that  which 
has  changed  his  life." 

"  His  wife  has  not  done  anything  wrong  ?  " 
the  Professor  asked,  with  some  anxiety. 

"  NOJ"  Brewer  replied;  "  I  almost  wish  she 
had, and  settled  the  question  definitely ;  but  they 
live  on  together  in  a  sort  of  relationship  which 
is  not  companionship.  You  understand,  dear 
Professor  ;  I  need  not  explain.  Ellerton  has 
given  up  the  world — in  fact,  he  seldom  exhibits 
with  the  other  men.  He  has  gone  back  into 
his  shell.  It  may  be,  like  the  chambered  nau- 
tilus, that  he  has  built  a  more  beautiful  one 
which  we  are  not  worthy  to  enter.  While  his 
face  is  sadder  and  less  handsome,  I  must  con- 
fess that  it  has  gained  a  certain  strength,  and, 
if  I  may  venture  it,  a  divine  quality  which  it 
has  never  had  before,  in  spite  of  its  charms.  It 
is  more  intense.  The  lines  under  the  eyes  are 
deepened,  the  chambers  where  the  eyes  rest 
seem  more  like  caverns,  and  there  are  gray 
hairs  here  and  there  which  would  show  more 
were  his  hair  black  instead  of  dark  brown. 
There  is  a  look  of  acceptance  about  the  mouth, 
and  the  chin  has  come  forward  a  little,  as  if  de- 
termined to  do  its  duty  in  spite  of  whatever 
feelings  might  pass  over  it.  Mind  you,  Pro- 
fessor, he  has  spoken  no  word  to  me,  or  to  At- 
wood,  so  far  as  I  know,  of  this  relationship  to 
his  wife,  but  you  will  see  it  all  when  you  call  on 


The  Return  of  Ulysses          189 

him,  and  much  more,  from  your  love  of  him, 
than  I  can  divine.  He  speaks  often  of  you, 
old  friend,  and  has  longed  for  your  return." 

The  Professor  rose  at  this  moment,  a  strong 
feeling  at  his  heart  impelling  him  to  go  at  once 
and  see  Ellerton. 

"  My  dear  Brewer,  pardon  me  if  I  leave 
abruptly.  There  is  a  feeling  in  my  heart  that 
I  must  see  Ellerton  at  once.  It  was  a  kind 
fate  that  threw  me  into  your  arms  this  morning 
on  my  return  from  strange  lands,  and  I  hope 
we  may  run  across  one  another  very  often  in 
the  coming  years." 

Saying  this  he  hurried  out  of  the  restaurant, 
wishing  perhaps  to  cover  his  emotion  even  from 
Brewer,  and  hastened  up-town  to  I/awrence's 
studio.  He  reached  the  door;  it  was  ajar,  and 
he  ventured  as  an  old  friend  to  enter  without 
knocking.  L,awrence  was  sitting  in  a  chair 
near  a  statue,  with  his  head  dropped  into  his 
hands  as  if  weary  or  fatigued.  The  Professor 
called  to  him  the  one  word: 

"  Ellerton." 

Lawrence  knew  his  voice  at  once  and  sprang 
to  his  feet,  crying,  "  Dear  Maso!  you  have 
come  back." 

The  meeting  was  indeed  a  touching  one. 
This  Professor,  who  to  the  world  appeared  cold 
and  often  indifferent,  and  at  whose  feet  the 
teachers  in  most  of  the  universities  were  glad 


I  go  The  Angel  of  Clay 

to  sit,  as  Paul  of  yore  at  the  feet  of  Gamaliel, 
and  listen  to  his  words  of  wisdom  —  this  same 
Professor  was  now  holding  close  to  his  heart 
the  one  dearer  to  him  than  all  books  or  stones 
or  inanimate  things  —  the  one  strong  human 
affection  of  his  life. 

"  Sit  down,  old  friend,"  Ellerton  said  at 
length,  "  and  let  me  get  you  a  glass  of  wine, 
for  you  must  be  tired  from  your  long  sea  voy- 
age. And  so  you  arrived  only  this  morning  ?  ' ' 

Ellerton  looked  into  his  face  and  noticed  that 
there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  They  were  in 
part  tears  of  joy,  in  part  tears  of  anguish  for 
the  pain  his  boy  had  passed  through. 

"  You  find  me  changed,  old  friend,"  he  said 
sadly. 

At  this  moment  the  voice  of  his  wife  was 
heard  at  the  door,  and  she  came  in  upon  them, 
saying  pleasantly: 

"  Your  old  lover  has  come  back,  Ellerton." 

"  Yes,"  the  Professor  remarked,  coming  for- 
ward and  shaking  her  hand.  "  Odysseus  has 
returned  from  his  wanderings." 

He  could  not  help  noticing  that  she  had 
grown  more  beautiful  by  companionship  with 
Ellerton,  and  yet  he  wondered  why  it  should 
not  be  so.  What  had  worn  upon  her  husband 
had  only  tended  to  tame  her  waywardness  and 
give  her  added  charm. 

The  Professor  inquired  about  old  friends  who 


The  Return  of  Ulysses          191 

were  dear  to  them  both,  and  especially  regard- 
ing Mrs.  Schuyler  and  the  Good  Physician. 

"  Our  two  friends,"  L,awrence  replied  to  him, 
"  have  gone  on  bravely.  The  Good  Physician 
succeeded  in  getting  Mrs.  Schuyler  interested 
in  his  children's  ward  in  the  St.  John's  Hos- 
pital, and  she  has  established  a  special  depart- 
ment, with  a  hundred  cots  for  children  under 
six  years  of  age,  in  memory  of  little  Ruth. 
There  is  scarcely  a  day  she  does  not  ride  down 
there  in  her  carriage,  bearing  flowers  and  play- 
things for  the  little  invalids.  Once  started  in 
this  good  work,  she  has  followed  it  with  her 
whole  heart,  and  in  the  same  spirit  in  which 
she  followed  the  gay  world  six  years  ago.  The 
Good  Physician  comes  to  and  goes  from  this 
studio,  bringing  with  him  inspiration  and 
strength  as  of  old,  and  keeping  me  in  touch 
with  the  rank  and  file  of  humanity." 

The  Professor  remained  in  town  for  a  fort- 
night, spending  most  of  his  time  with  Ellerton, 
going  back  to  their  favourites  among  the  poets 
and  discussing  the  humanitarian  questions  of 
the  hour,  until  he  was  called  away  to  com- 
plete a  book  for  an  anxious  publisher. 

The  coming  back  of  his  old  friend  made  life 
more  bright  for  Ellerton,  in  spite  of  the  depres- 
sions which  would  follow  him  the  minute  he 
was  left  alone  for  any  length  of  time  with  his 
own  wife. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MURILLO   AND   THE   MODEL 

"  Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll." 

HOLMES. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE  had  been  sent  South 
by  the  Good  Physician,  who  said  that 
the  air  of  Florida  was  the  only  one  to  cure  her 
troublesome  cough.  She  had  written  to  Eller- 
ton,  begging  him  to  come  to  the  homestead  and 
take  care  of  it  in  her  absence.  It  was  not  so 
much  that  she  wished  the  home  to  be  taken 
care  of  as  it  was  a  feeling  that  his  own  self 
needed  the  rest  and  quiet  of  the  country.  She 
had  put  the  request  iu  such  a  way  that  he  could 
not  refuse  it,  and  although  it  was  exceptionally 
hard  to  leave  the  city  in  December,  when  life 
was  at  its  quickest  and  clients  came  often  to  see 
him  about  his  work,  he  set  his  own  work  and 
desires  aside  and  determined  to  accede  to  her 
wishes. 

His  mother  had  built  a  studio  just  off  the 
library,  and  an  apartment  which  he  occupied 
1 92 


Murillo  and  the  Model          193 

when  he  was  at  the  home.  Doors  opened  out 
upon  the  garden  and  connected  the  studio  with 
the  sleeping-room.  He  still  kept  his  old  study 
in  the  tower.  Ellerton  did  not  believe  for  a 
moment  that  his  wife  would  accompany  him 
in  the  depth  of  winter  to  such  a  lonesome 
place,  and  was  surprised  when  she  said  that 
she  was  glad  he  was  going  to  leave  town, 
for  she  was  weary  of  teas  and  the  theatre 
and  people.  Then,  too,  she  longed  for  a  sleigh- 
ride. 

In  Julia's  giving  up  there  was  always  some 
vantage-point  to  which  she  still  clung.  It  was 
not  the  giving  up  of  the  Prodigal  Son  who  re- 
turned to  his  father's  house  and  asked  to  be 
dealt  with  as  one  of  the  hired  servants. 

Their  preparations  were  quickly  made,  and 
they  departed  by  a  morning  train,  leaving  the 
studio  in  Atwood's  care.  When  they  arrived 
at  the  little  station  in  the  afternoon,  they  found 
the  coachman  waiting  for  them  with  the  old- 
fashioned  double-sleigh.  Everything  had  been 
done  to  make  their  coming  a  bright  one. 
Ellerton  missed  his  mother  at  every  turn  in  the 
house,  but  Julia  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  at  not 
meeting  the  proud  face,  with  its  look  of  accept- 
ance but  not  of  welcome. 

The  only  thing  that  Ellerton  had  taken  from 
his  studio  in  New  York  was  the  wonderful 
painting  by  Murillo  of  the  Madonna  and  Holy 


194  The  Angel  of  Clay 

Child,  which  has  been  mentioned  in  previous 
chapters.  He  said  to  himself : 

"  If  I  can  only  have  that  picture  there,  it 
will  brighten  and  beautify  whatever  lonely 
hours  may  be  before  us,  and  living  in  the 
presence  of  this  master,  touching  him  as  it 
were  through  his  highest  expression,  through 
the  language  of  colour,  more  expressive  to  the 
initiated  than  the  language  of  words,  I  shall 
grow  perchance  a  little  closer  to  this  great  one. 
From  such  companionship  only  good  can 
come. ' ' 

The  picture  arrived  soon  after  Lawrence  had 
settled  in  the  studio  there,  and  he  hung  it  in 
the  best  light  he  could  find,  under  an  old  lamp 
of  beaten  iron,  which  he  had  brought  with  him 
from  Siena.  He  thought,  too,  of  his  wife  in 
bringing  it.  Once  or  twice  in  the  New  York 
studio  he  had  come  upon  her  unawares,  study- 
ing the  picture  in  one  of  her  strange  dreaming 
moods. 

"  Is  it  not  beautiful,  Julia  ?  "  he  said  to  her 
once. 

"  More  beautiful  than  I  can  understand," 
she  answered.  He  remembered  telling  her  of 
a  child  who  had  entered  the  studio  and  stopped 
awe-stricken  before  the  picture,  and  had  finally 
turned  to  him  saying  : 

"  I  do  not  believe  any  man  painted  that 
picture.  It  must  have  been  an  angel."  And 


Murillo  and  the  Model          195 

the  child  went  on  to  say  :  "  If  that  beautiful 
picture  were  mine,  I  should  hang  over  it  a 
lamp,  so  that  I  could  get  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  and  come  in  and  look  at  it,  and  the 
sweet  face  of  the  Mother  would  take  away  all 
my  fears." 

It  was  this  simple  child's  suggestion  that  had 
led  him  to  place  the  old  Siena  lamp  over  the 
picture.  Truly,  he  thought,  out  of  the  mouths 
of  babes  and  sucklings  He  hath  perfected 
praise. 

Julia  went  out  for  a  sleigh-ride  the  next 
afternoon,  and  when  L,awrence  found  himself 
alone  he  roamed  about  the  house  as  he  had 
done  in  his  free  boyhood,  and  spent  an  hour  in 
the  tower  alone.  How  much  changed  his  life 
seemed  since  then!  Freedom,  after  all,  he 
thought,  is  entirely  a  matter  of  the  spirit,  and  in 
his  bondage  he  was  learning  to  be  free.  Every 
corner  reminded  him  of  some  boyish  prank, 
and  the  piano,  outworn,  was  full  of  songs  that 
time  could  never  outwear.  At  times  with  that 
fervid  imagination,  he  would  sit  in  the  library 
and  seem  actually  to  see  Mabel  sitting  there, 
her  hands  caressing  the  keys,  her  face  up- 
turned, singing  Bonnie  Sweet  Bessie,  the  Maid 
o'  Dundee. 

Dear  God  !  what  changes  had  taken  place 
since  he  first  heard  her  sing  that  song  in  the 
old  library,  with  its  old-fashioned  portraits  of 


196  The  Angel  of  Clay 

his  ancestors,  who  always  seemed  so  prim,  and 
who  if  they  had  hearts  and  human  affections 
certainly  did  not  show  them  in  these  paintings. 
He  looked  out  of  the  window,  across  the 
meadows,  now  covered  with  fleecy  white,  which 
the  afternoon  sun  turned  into  great  fields  of 
pearl,  and  he  thought  how  blue  the  shadows 
were  under  the  pines  and  spruces,  and  saw  that 
the  impressionists  had  caught  a  half-truth  after 
all.  Julia  had  been  moody  ever  since  her  com- 
ing here.  They  had  been  married  now  six 
years.  How  the  time  had  passed !  Most  of  it 
had  been  with  him  a  constant  heartache.  He 
lost  himself  only  in  his  work  and  in  the  doing 
of  good  to  those  about  him.  "  If  my  married 
life,"  he  thought,  "with  all  its  misery,  has 
taught  me  the  blessedness  of  being  something 
to  my  fellow-creatures,  it  is  worth  while  to  have 
lived  and  suffered  it. 

"  There  you  are,  my  uncle,  in  your  coat  of 
blue,"  he  said,  standing  before  a  painting  of  an 
officer  of  the  late  war  ;  "  you  did  not  hesitate 
to  lead  the  last  charge,  a  forlorn  hope,  at  the 
battle  of  Gettysburg.  You  knew  that  there 
was  not  one  chance  of  escape,  and  that  a  sharp- 
shooter's bullet  would  find  you  out  before  you 
had  gone  five  hundred  feet  ;  and  after  the  first 
ball  had  shattered  your  left  arm,  why  did  you 
still  press  on  into  the  teeth  of  death,  crying  out 
to  your  brave  men  to  follow  you  ?  That  was 


Murillo  and  the  Model          197 

your  giving  up,  and  it  seems  strange  when  I 
think  of  it,  that  I  should  have  hesitated  at  the 
cross  that  was  laid  before  me.  Someone  has 
well  said,  '  Crosses  are  not  to  wear  but  to  be 
crucified  upon,'  and  yet  it  has  been  hard  to 
give  up  the  joy  of  living,  to  feel  forever  at 
your  heart  some  strange  pressure  closing  in 
and  down  upon  your  life.  It  makes  me  think 
of  the  old  Nuremberg  statue  of  the  Iron  Maiden 
— a  colossal  figure  of  iron,  which  opened  in  the 
middle,  and  into  which  a  man  was  thrust,  and 
which  was  so  ingeniously  constructed  that  day 
after  day  and  hour  after  hour,  the  different 
parts  of  the  figure  closed  in  one  upon  the  other, 
until  the  agonised  prisoner  was  crushed  to 
death.  And  yet  I  believe  that  such  a  death  I 
would  choose  a  thousand  times  over  before  the 
experience  I  have  gone  through  with  my  poor 
wife.  I  would  like  to  know,  sometimes,  what 
her  life  would  have  been  if  I  had  not  married 
her,  when  she  drew  my  head  down  in  the 
studio  that  night  and  told  me  what  she  would 
abandon  herself  to  if  I  did  not  let  her  live 
near  me, — which  meant  to  me,  of  course,  mar- 
riage. And  then,  too,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  these  six  years  would  have  meant  to  me, 
with  whatever  gain  and  fame  they  have  brought 
me,  if  I  had  not  had  pulling  at  my  heart-strings 
this  untold  agony.  For  all  the  pain,  there  has 
come  to  me  something  I  would  not  give  up  for 


198  The  Angel  of  Clay 

the  kingdoms  of  this  earth.  To  be  able,  as  I 
feel  now,  to  reach  out  to  the  lowliest  wretch  of 
the  land,  and  feel  with  him  the  sense  of  one 
common  humanity,  is  something  that  seems  to 
me  to  be  above  price,  and  a  kind  of  gift  that 
the  good  lyord  bestows  only  with  crucifixion. 
If  I  ever  have  the  genius  to  paint,  I  would 
like  to  paint  a  portrait  of  the  young  man,  the 
rich  man's  son,  who  came  to  Jesus  and  asked 
what  he  should  do  to  inherit  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  '  Sell  all  thou  hast  and  follow  me,' 
he  cried,  and  the  young  man  went  away  sorrow- 
ful, for  he  had  great  riches.  The  Bible  tells 
us  no  more  of  him.  But  I  should  like  to  paint 
a  second  panel,  in  which  he  has  sold  all,  and 
show  his  face  when  he  has  renounced  what  was 
dearest  to  him  in  this  world.  I  shall  never 
forget  a  face  I  saw  in  St.  Peter's  in  the  late 
twilight  of  a  June  day.  It  was  that  of  a  young 
monk — pallid,  thin,  starved,  and  strained  with 
the  denial  of  everything  that  the  physical  man 
craves  for  its  comfort  and  its  sustenance.  Eyes 
burnt  out,  the  colour  of  ashes,  unearthly,  awful 
to  look  upon,  as  if  a  June  rose  had  suddenly 
lost  its  perfume  and  colour  before  your  very 
eyes.  He  seemed  embodied  renunciation  — 
youth  with  every  sense  eliminated.  That 
were  an  extreme  indeed.  And  yet  how  much 
better  than  the  overfed,  glutted  man  of  the 
world  —  all  that  stifled  which  was  the  glory  of 


Murillo  and  the  Model          199 

manhood.  It  is  not  that  we  are  not  ready  to 
bear  a  cross,  and  even  ask  God  at  times  to  give 
us  something  worthy  of  men,  but  we  are  always 
choosing  our  own  crosses,  and  when  God  in 
His  wisdom  apportions  out  the  cross  that  we 
most  need,  it  is  not  to  our  choosing,  and  we 
would  cheerfully  have  suffered  anything  but 
this." 

Then,  looking  up  at  the  picture,  he  remarked, 
half  aloud  :  "  Well,  my  uncle,  standing  there 
so  bravely  in  your  uniform  of  blue,  I  do  not 
know  if  you  or  I  have  fought  the  hardest 
battle." 


CHAPTER  IX 
IN  THE  RECTOR'S  STUDY 

"  As  if  a  rose  should  shut 
And  be  a  bud  again." 

KEATS. 

HIS  wife  had  entered  noiselessly,  her  fur 
slippers  making  no  sound  upon  the 
carpet,  and  had  been  watching  him  standing 
before  the  picture  for  several  minutes,  and  had 
caught  his  last  words.  An  expression  passed 
over  her  face  that  showed  she  understood  them, 
in  part  at  least.  She  turned  to  go  out  again 
quietly,  but  her  dress  caught  a  chair,  making 
some  little  noise,  and  caused  him  to  turn  round 
and  see  her. 

"  Well,  Julia,  have  you  had  a  pleasant  sleigh- 
ride,  skimming  over  these  fields  of  pearl  with 
your  grey  horses  ?  ' ' 

He  had  come  quickly  out  of  his  abstraction 
into  the  living  present. 

' '  Yes, ' '    she  answered,    ' '  the  cool  air  has 
made  my  head  feel  better.     I  do  not  feel  so 
bitter  when  these  wild  winds  play  about  me." 
200 


In  the  Rector's  Stiidy          201 

"  My  dear  Julia,  you  have  not  been  well  of 
late  ;  come  and  sit  down  here  by  the  fire  and 
tell  me  what  your  trouble  is. ' ' 

It  was  a  request  he  had  made  so  often,  that 
it  would  have  seemed  almost  insincere  had  it 
come  from  anyone  but  L/awrence.  To  this 
hour  he  did  not  realise  at  all  that  this  woman 
was  beginning  to  feel  the  same  agony  that  he 
had  experienced  since  the  very  first  hour  of  his 
marriage.  She  was  beginning  to  realise  it  be- 
cause of  the  association  with  all  those  things 
that  refine  and  elevate  —  and  sometimes  kill 
because  the  new-found  wings  are  not  strong 
enough  for  the  new  ether. 

"  Ellerton,  you  once  called  me, —  do  you  re- 
member ? —  you  once  called  me  your  rose.  I 
remember  it  so  well ;  it  was  in  the  old  garden. 
Your  mother  had  left  the  place  to  us.  It  was 
in  June,  and  I  came  in  perfectly  happy  from 
roaming  about  the  place  plucking  the  prettiest 
flowers  and  cutting  the  others  down  to  satisfy 
one  of  my  wild  moods.  I  remember  my  face 
was  flushed,  my  hair  streaming,  my  gown  loose 
about  my  neck,  and  you  stopped  me  as  I  entered 
the  doorway,  and  said:  '  Stand  there,  my  rose, 
while  I  fasten  you  in  my  memory  for  a  statue 
of  Aurora  scattering  flowers.'  You  may  know 
that  it  is  true,  for  I  never  could  say  such  poet- 
ical and  pretty  things  unless  I  had  heard  you 
say  them." 


2O2 


"Almost  do  I  believe  sometimes  that  I  may 
love  you, ' '  he  thought.  He  leaned  forward  and 
took  her  hand  in  his.  It  was  a  hand  of  remark- 
able beauty.  He  had  seen  but  one  like  it,  and 
that  was  the  hand  of  a  French  model,  who 
somehow  had  found  her  way  to  Rome  and  was 
posing  at  the  time  for  Bouguereau. 

"Julia,  my  little  one,"  he  said  softly,  "I 
wish  my  life  with  you  had  been  of  greater 
happiness  for  you.  But  the  world,  and  this 
hard  work  of  mine,  and  this  stubborn  clay  with 
which  I  am  always  fighting,  have  not  used  me 
too  kindly,  and  so  I  have  often  reflected  to 
you,  I  fear,  a  sad  and  moody  self." 

And  L,awrence  registered  at  that  moment  a 
sacred  vow.  There  were  large  tears  in  her 
eyes  —  the  tears  of  early  days,  when  he  first 
knew  her.  Of  late  she  had  cried  but  little,  but 
had  been  very  silent.  She  would  stand  hours 
before  the  Murillo  looking  up  at  the  face  of  the 
Madonna  and  then  at  the  Child,  and  wonder- 
ing— who  knows  what  ?  And  so  the  day  closed, 
bringing  them  nearer  together  than  they  had 
ever  been  before. 

The  next  morning  dawned  bright,  clear,  and 
cold  ;  snow  everywhere  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
carry.  The  few  birds  that  had  braved  the  bleak 
New  England  winter  came  twittering  about  the 
porch,  as  if  seeking  human  sympathy  as  well  as 
the  breakfast  of  crumbs  which  Lawrence  never 


In  the  Rector  *s  Study  203 

forgot.  But  for  all  the  cold  it  was  an  ideal 
winter's  day,  and  Julia  seemed  in  tune  with  the 
crisp  brightness  of  the  atmosphere,  and  to  en- 
joy the  shimmer  on  the  snow.  In  fact,  she 
was  more  light-hearted  than  Ellerton  had  seen 
her  for  some  time.  She  busied  herself  with  a 
thousand  little  things  in  the  course  of  the 
morning,  punctuating  the  minutes  now  and 
then  with  some  small  and  affectionately 
thoughtful  attention.  She  insisted  on  arrang- 
ing the  things  in  Ellerton's  study  in  the  tower, 
and  on  putting  out  the  books  and  things  he 
had  cared  for  as  a  boy.  She  made  the  gar- 
dener bring  in  some  of  the  roses  that  might 
recall  the  picture  of  herself  on  that  June  day 
when  he  called  her  his  rose.  She  told  the 
maid  to  keep  the  fire  burning  brightly  all  the 
day.  All  these  remembrances  touched  Ellerton 
in  a  peculiar  way,  after  the  vow  and  tenderness 
of  yesterday. 

After  lunch  Ellerton  pressed  her  to  take  an- 
other sleigh-ride,  saying  that  the  horses  needed 
exercise,  even  if  she  did  not  care  to  face  the 
wintry  air.  And  Julia,  with  that  sudden  desire 
to  gratify  his  lightest  wish,  even  to  going  from 
him,  complied  with  an  eagerness  that  touched 
him  to  the  heart.  The  greys  were  brought  to 
the  door,  and  Julia,  muffled  up  with  solicitous 
care  by  her  husband,  started  on  her  drive. 

The  rapid  motion  aroused  every  sense  within 


204  The  Angel  of  Clay 

her.  The  still  whiteness  of  the  landscape  ap- 
pealed to  that  inner  and  newly  awakened  long- 
ing within,  —  which  she  had  not  been  able  to 
fathom  or  crystallise  into  speech, — the  longing 
to  be  worthy  of  him.  She  had  gone  far  from 
the  house  on  the  border  of  the  deep  woods,  filled 
with  a  certain  reckless  spirit  of  adventure,  be- 
fore she  realised  that  the  night  was  coming  on 
and  told  the  coachman  hastily  to  turn  back. 
The  horses  drew  up  suddenly,  almost  brushing 
against  the  rector,  trudging  homeward  wearily 
from  a  distant  call,  lost  in  thought  of  his  ab- 
sent daughter,  the  light  of  his  lonely  life.  It 
would  have  been  positively  discourteous  in  Julia 
not  to  have  invited  the  old  man  to  take  the 
vacant  seat  by  her  side,  for  he  knew  that  she 
must  pass  the  rectory  on  her  homeward  drive. 

Despite  the  estrangement  that  had  existed 
between  Ellerton  and  himself  since  Lawrence's 
marriage,  the  rector  took  the  proffered  seat. 
He  had  never  been  able  to  forgive  Lawrence 
for  what  seemed  a  falling  away  from  the  early 
high  ideals.  Perhaps,  like  Ellerton's  mother, 
he  had  planned  a  different  marriage  for  the 
boy.  Very  little  was  said,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments the  horses  drew  up  at  the  rectory. 

From  habit  rather  than  intent,  the  old  man 
asked  Julia  to  come  in.  Yielding  to  the  im- 
pulse of  the  moment,  which  was  a  desire  to  see 
Mabel's  home,  she  stepped  out  and  followed 


In  the  Rector  Js  Study          205 

him  up  the  path  and  into  his  study,  where  a 
bright  log-fire  was  burning.  Over  the  mantel- 
piece hung  a  portrait  of  Mabel  that  Atwood 
had  painted  from  memory  and  had  sent  to  the 
rector.  Again  Julia  found  herself  confronted 
by  the  face  of  the  angel.  This  time,  strangely 
enough,  she  felt  no  pang  of  jealousy.  As  her 
eyes  wandered  around  the  room,  they  fell  on  a 
face  that  fixed  her  attention  and  changed  her 
expression. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  photograph  ?  "  she 
asked  almost  rudely. 

"  I  knew  Mr.  Perry  long  ago,"  answered  the 
rector  half  abstractedly. 

' '  Where  ?  ' '  she  asked  quickly. 

"  Here,"  he  replied,  beginning  to  wonder  at 
her  interest.  "  And  where  did  you  know 
him?" 

"I — I — "  she  hesitated,  "why  in  New 
York,  before  I  met  Mr.  Lawrence." 

The  conversation  had  suggested  to  the  rector 
some  reason  for  Lawrence's  marriage  apart 
from  the  one  the  world  had  given.  He  found 
himself  asking  of  his  heart  this  question  :  Had 
Ellerton  ever  asked  the  woman  to  be  his  wife, 
or  had  the  marriage  been  forced  upon  him, 
by  some  situation  for  which  his  boy  was  not 
responsible  ? 

But  now,  Julia,  thanking  him  for  his  courtesy, 
made  a  hasty  departure  and  drove  home. 


206  The  Angel  of  Clay 

The  rector  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  his 
small  study,  tormented  by  the  thought  that 
he  had  possibly  wronged  the  boy  he  loved  so 
dearly. 

"  I  will  send  for  him  to-night,"  he  said  aloud. 
"  If  I  have  wronged  the  lad,  I  '11  ask  his  par- 
don, and  have  it  from  his  own  lips."  And 
looking  steadily  at  the  portrait  of  his  daughter, 
over  the  mantelpiece,  he  sank  into  his  study 
chair  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  SOUI/S   AWAKENING 

"Thy  servant,  Death,  with  solvent  breath, 
Pours  finite  into  infinite." 

ANON. 

IT  was  very  late  when  Lawrence  returned 
from  his  trying  interview  with  the  rector, 
who  had  never  sought  him  since  his  marriage 
with  Julia. 

He  entered  the  great  hall  with  his  feet  cov- 
ered with  snow.  The  thoughtful  servant  had 
left  his  slippers  by  the  door,  and  he  put  them 
on  before  he  passed  into  the  library,  where 
there  was  a  night-lamp  for  him.  He  stopped 
for  a  moment  before  the  fire  to  warm  his  hands 
and  rest  himself,  for  he  was  exhausted  after 
the  scene  he  had  just  passed  through. 

"  Thank  God,  that  is  cleared  up  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  I  scarcely  thought  the  old  man 
could  have  so  misjudged  me.  And  yet  his 
attitude  has  been  that  of  most  of  my  friends. 
He  seemed  deeply  moved,  and  yet  when  he 
asked  me  it  was  easy  to  forgive  him.  I  have 
207 


208  The  Angel  of  Clay 

never  forgotten  that  he  is  Mabel's  father.  Ah, 
me  !  Life  with  its  changes  !  I  wonder  if  Julia 
is  sitting  up  for  me." 

He  rose,  walked  into  the  sleeping-room, 
glanced  at  the  bed,  saw  that  it  was  vacant,  went 
softly  across  the  floor,  pushed  aside  the  curtain 
which  led  into  the  studio,  and  stopped  suddenly. 

There  under  the  Murillo,  kneeling  in  her 
night-dress,  was  his  wife,  her  hands  clasped 
over  her  bosom,  her  head  thrown  back,  her 
hair  fallen  over  her  partially  bare  shoulders, 
and  the  great  eyes  staring  up  at  the  Madonna 
and  Holy  Child.  Two  thoughts  struck  him  at 
once.  The  minor  one  was  the  artistic  beauty  and 
the  abandon  of  the  figure ;  and  the  second  and 
major  thought  was  the  realisation,  which  flashed 
to  his  soul  with  the  quickness  of  lightning,  that 
some  new  revelation  had  come  to  his  wife. 

The  face  revealed  the  soul's  awakening:  the 
eyes  were  open  almost  to  the  point  of  starting 
from  their  sockets,  and  yet  it  was  not  with  ter- 
ror, but  with  the  looking  upon  some  vision  of 
unspeakable  loveliness  of  which  she  had  never 
dreamed  in  the  highest  life  she  had  ever 
touched.  A  new  light  had  come  into  her  face, 
as  when  the  dark  caves  of  earth  are  opened  and 
the  sunlight  throws  one  resplendent  ray  into 
the  unseen  depths.  It  was  for  her  a  supreme, 
ecstatic  moment,  and  his  innate  delicacy  for- 
bade him  to  intrude  upon  the  sacredness  of  the 


THE   SOUL'S   AWAKENING. 


The  Soul's  Awakening         209 

moment,  even  with  his  own  wife.  He  turned 
away,  the  pain  and  strain  of  the  last  two  hours 
lost  in  the  joy  of  a  new  revelation. 

Stepping  quietly  through  the  library  out  into 
the  wide  Colonial  hall,  by  the  old  clock,  with 
its  hands  pointing  past  midnight,  with  its  ship 
still  sailing  over  the  stormy  sea, — sailing  and 
never  coming  home  to  port, — he  mounted  the 
winding  stair  that  led  to  his  study  in  the  tower, 
dropped  into  his  familiar  arm-chair  before  the 
fire,  his  imagination  filled  with  the  picture  of 
his  wife,  and  the  look  upon  her  face,  with  all 
that  it  betokened.  Half  audibly,  he  exclaimed : 
"  What  a  transfiguration  a  moment  can  bring 
forth !  "  Then  he  fell  into  the  deepest  reverie, 
speculating  upon  the  future  and  the  infinite 
possibilities  that  this  revelation  might  hold  for 
both  of  them,  while  past  and  present  merged 
themselves  into  one.  How  long  he  might  have 
stayed  there  no  one  can  tell.  Suddenly  the 
sonorous  tones  of  the  old  clock  broke  the  silence 
of  the  sleeping  house,  causing  him  to  start 
suddenly  from  his  chair  and  hasten  down  the 
stair  through  the  library  and  on  into  the  bed- 
room. She  was  not  there. 

"  She  must  be  still  in  the  studio,"  he  said. 

He  drew  the  curtain  back  carefully,  expect- 
ing to  find  her  still  before  the  painting.  Glanc- 
ing hurriedly  around,  he  was  startled  to  find  the 

room  empty  and  the  large  door  at  the  back  of 
14 


2 1  o  The  A  ngel  of  Clay 

the  studio  leading  to  the  garden  wide  open. 
Thoroughly  terrified,  he  rushed  out.  There 
was  a  chill  about  his  heart  which  did  not  come 
from  the  bleak  winter's  night. 

' '  My  God,  my  God  !  "  he  cried ;  ' '  where  are 
you,  Julia,  my  wife  ?  " 

The  full  moon  was  shining  down  through  the 
bare  branches  of  the  elm-trees,  cutting  their 
delicate  tracery  in  sharp  outline  upon  the  un- 
trodden snow.  Here  and  there  the  dense  firs 
cast  rich  dark  shadows  that  at  any  other  time 
would  have  delighted  his  artistic  sense.  He 
ran  wildly  about  the  garden,  seeking  his  wife 
everywhere.  Finally,  he  came  to  the  clump 
of  pines  where  so  often  he  had  lingered  on  sum- 
mer nights  with  his  mother  and  Mabel.  There 
he  saw  a  sight  which  turned  the  blood  to  ice  in 
his  veins.  Thrown  at  full  length  upon  her 
face,  her  bare  neck  touching  the  gleaming 
snow,  his  wife  lay.  Her  arms  were  extended 
as  if  to  clasp  the  whiteness  to  her  heart.  Some 
wild  impulse  there  had  been  to  gather  into  her 
bosom  the  purity  and  holiness  of  the  still  win- 
ter's night.  He  could  hardly  reach  her,  for  he 
felt  a  sickening  inertia  creeping  over  him.  It 
seemed  to  paralyse  every  impulse.  He  prayed 
that  all  this  wild  scene  might  be  a  nightmare, 
and  that  he  might  soon  awaken  from  its  agonis- 
ing terror.  Summoning  all  his  strength,  he 
reached  her  side  and,  catching  her  up  in  his 


The  Soul's  Awakening          2 1 1 

arms,  gathered  her  up  close  to  him  and  strug- 
gled through  the  snow  to  the  open  door  of  the 
studio.  He  hurried  through  the  studio  and 
placed  her  tenderly  upon  the  bed  she  had  left. 

She  was  as  cold  as  marble.  She  lay  there, 
the  firelight  flickering  over  her,  without  a  mo- 
tion. He  chafed  her  hands  and  feet,  calling 
madly,  from  time  to  time,  for  one  of  the  serv- 
ants to  come  to  him. 

No  one  heard  him. 

He  found  some  brandy  in  a  drawer  near  the 
bed  and  managed  to  pour  a  little  between  her 
fast-shut  teeth.  For  more  than  an  hour  he 
worked  over  the  prostrate  form  without  signs 
of  life  returning.  He  did  not  dare  to  leave  her 
to  summon  a  servant.  Often  he  had  worked 
on  some  marble  figure  long  past  midnight,  with 
a  candle  in  one  hand  and  a  rasp  in  the  other. 
How  different,  he  thought,  was  this  working 
over  a  human  body,  with  all  its  strange  history 
now  half  revealed  to  him ! 

A  smile  passed  sweetly  over  the  still  face,  or 
the  shadow  of  a  smile.  The  lips  now  quivered 
as  if  they  wished  to  speak.  If  they  would  only 
speak  one  word,  he  thought,  one  word  of  recog- 
nition, of  forgiveness !  But  what  dim  conscious- 
ness lingered  in  her  brain  was  taken  up  by  the 
last  vision.  Bending  low,  he  could  catch  a 
stray  word  articulated  with  difficulty.  This 
much  he  made  out  —  that  she  had  suddenly 


212  The  Angel  of  Clay 

realised,  while  kneeling  before  the  picture,  that 
something  in  the  Madonna  made  holiness  pos- 
sible for  all  womankind.  And  as  she  looked 
up  into  the  soft  brown  eyes,  this  possibility  had 
fallen  down  upon  the  untutored  and  untamed 
nature  of  the  model.  Then  she  awoke  from  this 
dreaming,  and  a  revulsion  passed  over  her  like  a 
wave.  The  realisation  of  the  life  she  had  been 
born  to  came  back,  and  with  it  a  new  apprecia- 
tion of  what  she  might  have  been  to  her  hus- 
band had  fate  ordered  her  life  in  other  lines. 
With  one  impulse  she  rushed  madly  out  into  the 
snow — where,  she  did  not  know,  did  not  care. 
Finally  she  fell  under  the  pine-trees,  with  her 
bosom  close  to  the  white  holiness  she  was  long- 
ing for,  and  forgot  everything.  This  much  the 
terrified  husband  made  out  from  the  dying  wo- 
man. The  e}'es  now  turned  in  their  sockets, look- 
ing about  the  room  and  smiling  whenever  they 
lighted  upon  his  face.  There  was  something 
she  wanted  ;  he  divined  that  it  was  the  picture 
in  the  studio.  In  a  moment  he  had  torn  it  from 
its  hanging  and  placed  it  against  the  wall  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Again  the  look  came  over 
his  wife's  face  he  had  seen  there  when  she  was 
kneeling  before  it  some  hours  ago.  There  was 
no  strength  now  for  the  revulsion  that  had 
come  upon  her  so  soon  after  her  vision.  Her 
arms  reached  out  towards  him  as  if  to  compre- 
hend and  include  him  in  this  new  revelation. 


The  Soul's  Awakening         213 

With  what  strength  she  could  command  she 
drew  him  close  to  her  in  the  same  way  —  and 
yet  how  different  ! — as  on  that  night  in  the 
studio  when  her  purely  physical  affection  and 
abandon  had  led  her  to  demand  that  his  life  be 
given  up  to  her.  This  new  demand  was  one, 
not  of  acquiring,  but  of  giving.  Upon  her,  as 
upon  her  husband,  had  fallen  the  blessed  realisa- 
tion of  renunciation. 

Then  the  eyes  closed,  and  when  they  opened 
again  it  was  to  glance  at  the  Madonna  and  then 
at  him.  The  hours  slipped  by,  and  the  grey 
morning  light  crept  into  the  room. 

No  one  had  yet  come  to  help  him.  There 
was  no  noise  without  to  disturb  the  peaceful 
going  of  this  strange  life,  once  so  unreal,  now 
so  rich  in  the  understanding  of  those  things 
that  come,  sometimes  to  little  children  at  the 
mother's  side  ;  sometimes  to  strong  men  and 
women  in  the  fulness  of  life  ;  and  sometimes  in 
the  grey  twilight  of  old  age. 

Come  when  it  may,  this  awakening  of  the 
soul  to  its  new  and  true  possessions  brings  with 
it  a  benediction  upon  all  who  may  be  near  the 
one  whom  it  blesses  ;  and  what  unspeakable 
joy  to  the  mortal  upon  whom  it  settles,  as  it 
had  upon  this  life,  that  had  gone  out  as  a  can- 
dle in  the  grey  morning. 

THE   END 


BY 
WILLIAM  ORDWAY  PARTRIDGE 


POETRY 

THE  SONG  LIFE  OF  A  SCULPTOR 

Second  edition,  16°,  gilt  top   .         .         .     $1.00 

"  Speaks  with  a  voice  that  pleads  for  the  idealism  which 
this  decadent  age  contemns.  It  is  sculpture  leashed  with 
song." — Boston  Herald. 


BELLES-LETTRES 

ART  FOR  AMERICA 

Second  edition,  16°,  gilt  top   .         .         .     $1.00 

"  Stimulating  and  instructive  and  written  from  a  broad 
and  generous  standpoint." — Boston  Transcript. 


SCULPTURE 

THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  SCULPTURE 
Second  edition.     Illustrated  with  original  draw- 
ings.    16°,  gilt  top  ....     $1.00 

"Designed  to  give  a  theoretic  as  well  as  a  practical 
knowledge  of  sculpture,  the  methods  and  principles  of 
which  are  clearly  and  concisely  stated." — Boston  Herald, 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 


flew  jfiction. 


Agatha  Webb. 

By  ANNA  KATHARINE  GREEN,  author  of  "  The 
Leavenworth  Case,"  "  That  Affair  Next  Door," 
etc.  12°,  cloth,  $1.25. 

"This is  a  cleverly  concocted  detective  story, 
and  sustains  the  well-earned  reputation  of  the  writer. 
The  curiosity  of  the  reader  is  excited  and 
sustained  to  the  close. " — Brooklyn  Citizen, 

Children  of  the  Mist. 

By  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS,  author  of  "  Down  Dart- 
moor Way,"  "  Lying  Prophets,"  etc.    8°,  $1.50. 
"A  work  of  amazing  power  which  plainly  in- 
dicates a  master  hand." — Boston  Herald. 

Miss  Cay  ley's  Adventures. 

By  GRANT  ALLEN,  author  of   "Flowers   and 
Their  Pedigrees,"  etc.     With  80  illustrations. 
12°,  $1.50. 
"A  quaint  and   sparkling  story — bright   and 

entertaining  from   beginning  to  end." — Chicago 

Times-Herald. 

Dr.  Berkeley's  Discovery. 

By  RICHARD  SLEE  and  CORNELIA  ATWOOD 
PRATT.  Hudson  Library  No.  40.  12°,  paper, 
50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

Dr.  Berkeley's  discovery  is  a  liquid  which  will 
"develop"  certain  memory  cells  of  the  human 
brain,  as  a  photographer's  chemicals  "develop"  a 
sensitised  plate.  Upon  each  tiny  cell  appears  a 
picture,  visible  by  the  microscope.  By  "  develop- 
ing" the  memory  centre  of  a  brain,  Dr.  Berkeley 
can  trace  the  most  secret  history  of  the  being  that 
owned  the  brain  ;  can  see  the  things  the  being  saw, 
in  sequence,  from  infancy  to  death.  With  this 
foundation,  the  authors  of  "  Dr.  Berkeley's  Discov- 
ery "  have  told  a  thrilling,  dramatic  story. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 


Ubree  IRotable  ffioofes 

BY   ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 

The  Maker  of  Moons.  Large  12°,  gilv 
top,  $1.50. 

"Mr.  Chambers  has  an  original  creative  imagina- 
tion of  great  power,  and  has  a  dramatic  faculty  which 
enables  him  easily  and  artistically  to  shape  his  stories 
so  that  there  is  no  lagging  of  interest  .  .  .  he  is  a 
master  of  natural  dialogue,  a  strong  picturesque  de- 
scriptive writer,  and  the  possessor  of  a  keen  sense  of 
humor." — A^.  Y.  Press. 

A  King  and  a  Few  Dukes.  A  Romance. 
Sixth  Edition.  Large  12°,  $1.25. 

"  No  superior  fictjon  has  appeared  in  months. 
.  .  .  It  is  a  charming  love  story,  attractively  told 
in  a  way  that  is  essentially  Mr.  Chambers'  own." — 
N.  Y.  Times. 

"A  more  charming,  wholly  delightful  story,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  name  in  the  whole  range  of  Eng- 
lish fiction.  That  is  saying  much,  but  not  one  bit 
more  than  the  book  deserves.  .  .  .  The  charac- 
ters are  wonderfully  well  drawn." — N.  Y  World. 

"  This  latest  of  Mr.  Chambers'  stories  is  written  in 
a  very  charming  manner,  and  with  all  the  grace  and 
finish  that  have  made  the  writings  of  the  author  so 
popular  during  the  past." — Albany  Union. 

The  Red  Republic.  A  Romance  of  the 
Commune.  Ninth  Edition.  Large  12°, 
$1.25. 

"  With  all  its  rush  and  excitement  there  is  a  solid 
basis  of  painstaking  and  thoughtfulness  in  '  The  Red 
Republic.'  Mr.  Chambers  is  wholly  free  from  self- 
consciousness  ;  indeed  his  gifts  seem  to  be  little  short 
of  genius.  Wonderfully  vivid  and  graphic." — N.  Y. 
Press. 

"Mr.  Chambers  shows  great  familiarity  with  the 
many  dreadful  days  of  1871,  and  Mr.  Thiers'  policy  is 
critically  examined.  'The  Red  Republic'  abounds 
in  action." — N.  Y.  Times. 

"  The  book  will  commend  itself  not  only  for  its 
strength  and  vividness,  but  for  imagination  and 
fancy.  .  .  .  Glows  with  gentle  beauty  and  ro- 
mance, putting  in  striking  contrast  the  barbarity  of 
war."— DROCH  in  N.  Y.  Life. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


Little  Journeys  Series. 

By  ELBERT  HUBBARD. 

5  vols.,  fully  illustrated  with  portraits,  views,  etc. 
i6mo,  gilt  top,  each,  $1.75  ;  per  set,  $8.75. 

i.  Good  Men  and  Great. 

2.  Famous  Women. 
3.  American  Authors. 

4.  American  Statesmen. 
5.  Eminent  Painters. 

"  The  series  is  well  conceived  and  excellently  sus- 
tained. The  most  captious  critic  could  not  suggest 
an  improvement.  Never  was  there  more  satisfactory 
packing  in  more  attractive  shape,  of  matter  worth  at 
least  ten  times  the  money.  Such  a.  book  as  this 
ought  to  be  circulated  in  the  schools  ;  it  is  full  of 
instruction,  and  must  inevitably  whet  the  young 
appetite  for  what  is  healthy,  bracing,  and  developing 
in  pure  literature." — Buffalo  Commercial. 

Literary  Hearthstones. 

Studies  of  the  Home  Life  of  Certain  Writers 
and  Thinkers. 

By  MARION  HARLAND. 

Fully  illustrated.     i6mo,  each,  $1.50;  per  set  of  two 
volumes,  in  a  box,  $3.00. 

i.  Charlotte  Bronte. 

2.  William  Cowper. 
3.  Hannah  More.     4.  John  Knox. 

To  be  followed  by  : 

John  Bunyan.     Sir  Thomas  More. 
The  Qurneys.  The  Wesleys. 

"  The  writer  has  read  her  authorities  with  care,  and 
whenever  it  has  been  practicable  she  has  verified  by 
personal  investigation  what  she  has  heard  and  read. 
We  have  as  a  result  narratives  excellent  as  records 
and  distinctly  readable.  Anecdotes  are  introduced 
with  tact  ;  the  treatment  of  the  authors  is  sympa 
thetic  and  characterized  by  good  judgment." — N.  >'. 
Tribune. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 


CA 

<; 

P_ 

CA 

O 
0 

Cfq' 

3^ 

n> 
-t 

CA 
P 

r^ 

O 

V-k 

C§ 

£ 

5 

CA 

n> 

3' 

rT" 

P 

O 

3~* 

P 

3 

>-f\ 

CT> 

P 

. 

Q-. 

.^ 

^-i\ 

T3 

3 

3' 
P 

°s. 

3 

lh 

£-3 

^ 

H-  . 

r? 

n> 

. 

C> 

2. 

< 

n> 

2. 

^tk. 

t  *•"*• 

<—f 

^* 

»^-t 

o* 

a 

n 

a" 
P 

cr 
P 

3 

n> 

3 
3 
O 

cr 

P 

^ 

CO 

co 

P 

3 
P 

ra 
0 

P 
o 

X 

5' 

r> 

CA" 

O 

n> 

f? 

crq 

c-  < 

j^j 

s  S1* 

v> 

3 

P 

o" 

Bi 

CD 

^^c 

% 

v^ 

3. 

M 

CA 

cr 

s 

n> 

"^ 

£L 

-t 

^ 

[> 

o 

^ 

ba 
o 

0. 
3 

3 
P 

o" 

5' 
oq 

CA 
r* 
O 

3 

a 
o 

0 

>3 

b 

§ 

S" 

0 

3 

0. 

cr 

Si 

B 
n 

J 

bs 

3 
o 
2. 

5' 

o 

c 
crq 
tr 

o" 

P 
rt- 

o" 

P^ 

§ 

Qg] 

0 

v^T" 

CA" 

^ 

I? 

5' 

>—i 

rf 

£ 

r-f 

,-h 

3 

^ 

If" 

£L 

EL. 

S 

o 

co 

c"} 

CA' 

